The Shadow Over Rhudaur
by Northern Kingdom Writers
Summary: Northern Kingdom Writers present a RPG based story set in Arnor from 1346 to 1348, Third Age. A Dunedain king still sits upon the throne of Rhudaur, but can he endure when faced with both an upstart hillman chieftain and the Witchking of Angmar?
1. The Prologue The Rescue of Princesses

October 10, 3019. On the road near the Last Bridge

At last the hobbits were heading toward home. The Ring was destroyed, the War was over and they were eager to see their Shire again. They rode at leisure along the Great Road, which was as empty as ever, so they were grateful for the Wizard's company. There would be frost at night, but the weather was still fine and the autumn sun played merrily on the red and yellow leaves.

A week out of Rivendell, they reached the Last Bridge. The sun was already low over the road in front of them, so they found a nice spot for a camp on the steep eastern bank of the Mitheithel. Sam lit a fire and produced from his saddlebags a large collection of frying pans, bowls and kettles as well as lard, dried meat, honey, dried herbs and assorted vegetables. Fresh from the Last Homely House, the travelers had provisions aplenty. Sam put a kettle of water over the fire to boil and started cooking a nice supper, fit for four hungry hobbits and one wizard.

"Let us go look upon the Bridge, while Sam makes our supper!" proposed Pippin eagerly.

Frodo shook his head, declining the offer. As ever, with the approaching nightfall, Frodo's mood darkened. The horrors of their flight to Rivendell were still fresh in his mind and he had desired to see again neither the Ford, nor the Last Bridge, nor Weathertop, when they reached it. He sat huddled in a blanket, a book bound in red leather on his lap. The text was written in Bilbo's spidery hand, and labeled on the back were the words: "Translations from the Elvish, by B.B. "

Gandalf, followed by Pippin and Merry, ventured on to the Last Bridge. After the day's ride they were glad for the chance to stretch their limbs. Soon they stood in the middle of the sunlit expanse of the bridge that spanned the river in three graceful arches. The Sun played on the ancient blocks of white stone covered with moss and lichen. The place now looked peaceful and almost serene, despite the roar of the water below.

"Do you remember this place, Pip?" asked Merry. "It was right here where we found Glorfindel's green stone and knew it was safe to pass over the bridge."

"Of course, I do, Merry. I think it was a great idea to leave it for us as a token. Don't you think so, Gandalf?"

The wizard shrugged his shoulders. The hobbits noticed he had hardly listened to their conversation at all. Frowning, he was looking absently at the swift foamy water rushing through the stone arches down below.

"Is something wrong, Gandalf?" asked Pippin worriedly.

The wizard sighed and muttered sadly. "Swift are the waters of Mitheithel beneath the Iant Methed..." He lifted his head and his gaze wandered northward, to the broken crags crowned with the ruins of ancient watch towers.

"I was remembering a tale about a fair maiden who, driven by despair, fell to her death from this bridge. This was then a part of the ancient Kingdom of Rhudaur and the Shadow lay heavily over this land."

The keen eyes of the hobbits burned with interest. "Will you tell us the tale, Gandalf, please?" asked Merry.

The wizard shook his head and turned to start slowly back toward the camp, with the hobbits following suit. "Not now. Frodo has been ill at ease since we passed the Ford of Bruinen on the Sixth of October. This is a sad and violent tale, not fit for his ears so soon after all he had to suffer. I am loath to shatter what little peace he has been able to regain."

"Then perhaps later, Gandalf? asked Pippin hopefully. "After supper, when Frodo falls asleep? I am sure Sam will be happy to hear the tale, he is one for such things, especially if it concerns Elves."

"I am afraid it is not about Elves, Pippin. It is about Men who lived here. Some were Dunedain, Aragorn's people, others were from the native tribes of this land - the Hillmen."

"And the maiden who perished here?" whispered Merry. "Was she kin to our King?"

"In a way," replied Gandalf. "She was a descendant of Isildur as well, but from another line. By some accounts, she was once betrothed to one of Aragorn's ancestors, Arveleg I, the one who would later die at Amon Sûl."

"At Weathertop?" squeaked Pippin. "How exciting!"

Gandalf shook his head sadly, for he had hardly found the death of young King Arveleg exciting – all those years ago. As they approached the camp he made a sign for silence. Supper was waiting for them and Frodo seemed cheerful once more. As they ate they merrily discussed the events they had shared together back in Gondor and Rivendell.

Before they were finished, night began to fall, quiet and starry. Soon Frodo lay asleep near the fire. After washing the dishes, Sam prepared to slip into his bedroll at his master's feet, but Merry stopped him, nodding at Gandalf conspiratorially. Surrounded by three wide-eyed hobbits, Gandalf started his tale.

"This is an old story, old as Men reckon time. And the Shire reckoning had not even started then... As you know, after the Downfall of Numenor, when his sons established Gondor, Elendil the Tall founded the Northern Kingdom of Arnor. He made his home at Annuminas on the shores of Lake Evendim, not far from the Elvish country of Lindon – and just about a hundred miles north of your own homes in the Shire. The descendants of Isildur and their people dwelt there for many lives of Men, but their numbers were slowly diminishing, the memory and learning of Numenor waning..."

Gandalf sighed and reached into his bag to produce a familiar wooden pipe with long stem and curiously carved ivory bowl. He took his time filling it with sweet galenas as if musing on what to say next. The hobbits took out their own pipes: beautiful works of Elven craft, with pearl mouth-pieces and bound with fine-wrought silver - presents from Bilbo. Soon the pipes were lit and the sweet smell of Southfarthing leaf and galenas filled the still night air.

For a time they all smoked in silence. Then Gandalf continued. "And so it came to pass that after Eärendur the tenth King of Arnor died, the kingdom was divided among his three sons. The two younger ones were too ambitious to be content with the role of Royal princes. They wanted lands of their own to rule. The oldest son, Amlaith, was too weak, some would say, but I think he only wanted to avoid kin-strife and bloodshed. So, fair Annuminas was abandoned, and Amlaith became the first King of Arthedain at Fornost, the Northbury of the Kings. Now it is also desolate..." 

Gandalf paused a moment to puff upon the pipe. "The second son took the Southern part of Arnor, calling it Cardolan, and settled in Tyrn Gorthad - you know it as the Barrow-Downs." The Hobbits shivered as one. The memory of the Barrow-wights was not something one recalls lightly.

"The youngest son of Eärendur, Dauremir, was the most conniving of the lot – and took as advisors some who practiced the Black Arts. He became King of Rhudaur, the land between the Mitheithel and the Misty Mountains and also the west bank of the Mitheithel north of the Great Road - as far as Amon Sûl. Dauremir first settled at Brochenridge – just a little way from here." Gandalf gestured with the pipe towards the darkness to the north. "Perhaps you have seen the remnants of the place. I think Aragorn led you close by, on your journey to Rivendell."

Merry nodded thoughtfully. "I believe we saw the crumbled stone walls when we crossed a gap in a high ridge", he mused. "I am not very sure, as it was raining and Frodo... " he gulped and continued "Frodo was too ill for us to look around much."

"Yes, it must have been Brochenridge, or what remains of it. It was a mighty fortress, but soon proved unsuitable for Dauremir's heirs to effectively rule from there. So, after a few generations, the Kings of Rhudaur moved to a fortress on the River - Cameth Brin."

Gandalf turned from the fire and his sharp gaze seemed to pierce the darkness to the north. "Can he actually see it?" thought Pippin in awe. He was not sure of the answer. The old wizard had strange abilities.

"Cameth Brin, the jewel of Rhudaur..." continued Gandalf almost in a whisper. "The fair city of three waterfalls...I remember it well: the high tower perched on a rock, busy streets and markets, the glory of rainbows over the waterfalls... Everything is gone now, destroyed by enemies, fire and time..."

"You remember?" Pippin chimed in. "Wasn't it very long ago? Were you already here?"

"I had roamed Middle Earth for more than three hundred years already, when our story took place," replied Gandalf. "I arrived too late to see the division of Arnor, but I have been in Rhudaur ere the Shadow claimed it, and even ventured there a few times since - gathering information, or spying - to put it plainly. There are few places in the North that I haven't seen, Pippin."

"Cameth Brin was a mighty fortress, not too big, but virtually impregnable. There, a few days journey north up the river from this bridge, there is a high rocky plateau on the eastern bank. The tower, surrounded by two circles of walls, was built on this rock - the city of Cameth Brin. There most of the Dunedain nobles dwelt. The place could be reached from below only by a single winding road - the King's Road, they called it. There was another town below the hill - Tanoth Brin, the place for commoners, soldiers and peasants. The lower town was defended only by an earthen wall, so if a strong enemy approached, all the people from the lower town abandoned their houses and gathered at the fortress to withstand a siege."

Gandalf paused a moment to puff upon the pipe. "You can't imagine what a dangerous, tumultuous time it was. Vagabonds and outlaws, mercenaries and deserters roamed the land. The Hillmen of Rhudaur were a warlike people, much like the Dunlendings, their kin. They were never content with the rule of the Dunedain. The Kings of the line of Dauremir dwelt in Cameth Brin as if in a besieged fortress, never safe, never secure, ever awaiting a rebellion. The lords of the land warred often among themselves and at times a king would be overthrown by one usurper or other, who would only fall in his turn. And, as if the inner strife was not enough, the three kingdoms, Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur, ever fought between themselves..."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Gandalf, Sir," started Sam hesitantly, "why would they do such a thing? I mean, they were all kin, Elendil's heirs and all that, why would they fight each other? 'Tis plain unnatural, if you ask me..."

"It was mostly because of the Palantiri, Sam," Gandalf replied sadly.

"The Palantiri?!" cried Pippin. The memories of Dol Baran and Rath Dinen flooded back to him in a rush. "The evil stones like Saruman and Denethor had?"

"I told you once, Peregrin Took, the Palantiri are NOT evil," Gandalf replied somewhat irritably. "The seeing Stones of Elendil helped the Kings to rule their kingdoms, to send orders, to strengthen alliances, to watch the borders. They were quite handy devices, never used for evil purposes, before Sauron stole one of them."

Pippin shrugged his shoulders, once the wizard's piercing gaze left him. He was not convinced. One could hardly be, after seeing the fiery stone in the hands of the fey Steward of Gondor. Not to mention his own encounter with the Dark Lord. He gulped.

Gandalf snorted and continued with his tale. "There were not enough Palantiri in Arnor to divide them between the daughter kingdoms. There was one large stone which Elendil set right in the middle of his Kingdom, in a high chamber of the Tower of Amon Sûl and two smaller stones, like the one at Isengard. One of them Amlaith the King of Arthedain set at Fornost, while the other, the Stone of Emin Beraid, remained at the White Tower of Elostirion. It was of no use to Men as it was not in communication with the others, but only looked West over the Sea." 

"The strife was for possession of Amon Sûl, which lay right where the borders of Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur met. Only the chief Stone set there was available for all three to communicate with Gondor. But eventually, every king wanted the Stone for himself. Amon Sûl had seen much bloodshed."

Gandalf sighed again and paused a moment to puff upon the pipe. A silvery cloud of sweet-scented smoke lit by the glow of the fire glittered above his head. Then the wizard continued his tale, his voice suddenly old and weary.

"At the time when Malvegil reigned in Arthedain, about the year 1300 as Elves and Men reckon time, a new evil came to the North. A fourth kingdom arose north of Rhudaur, spanning the Misty Mountains. It was called Angmar, the Iron-Land, and there were gathered many evil Men, and Orcs, and other fell creatures. At first the rulers of Arnor paid it little heed. The first disquieting news came when Orcs, that had multiplied in the caves of the Misty Mountains, drove the Dwarves from their ancient stronghold under the Mountain of Gundabad, the northernmost peak of the Misty Mountains. The Orcs were rumored to be in league with the King of Angmar. Then came the reports of a mighty fortress being built at Carn-Dûm, at the western end of the Mountains of Angmar."

"The king of this land was known as the Witch-King, for he was a sorcerer - that much was clear from the start. Nobody knew whence he came, but all thought most likely from Harad, or Umbar, as there were many Black Numenoreans in the Witch-King's service. These lands had recently been conquered by Gondor, and the Black Numenoreans who used to rule there became homeless and scattered. But it led to further evil, as they spread their Dark Cult far and wide through the lands."

Sam, who was sitting by the fire smoking quietly, suddenly stirred. "Angmar?" he asked. "But I have heard tales of the dread, icy land of Angmar and the Witch-King! My granny told us such tales when we were but children..."Behave, Samwise, lest the Witch-King gets you", that's how she threatened us. But I have thought it to be no more than a tale..."

"I think you have learned by now that old tales often prove true..." replied Gandalf.

"Of course, Angmar was no simple tale!" cried Pippin. "My own forefathers, the Tooks, and Merry's ancestors, the Brandybucks, were among those who heeded the King's call and took part in the last battle that put an end to the Witch-King and Angmar! I think your own sires were there as well, Sam, only your family history doesn't reach that far back."

"Anyway", said the wizard, nodding thoughtfully, "the battle of Fornost you are talking about was much later, in 1975. By then, the Witch-King had ruled Angmar for over 600 years. At first, in Malvegil's and Argeleb's times, everyone believed the King of Angmar to be no more than a regular Man albeit a sorcerer. It was not known until much later that he was indeed the chief of the Ringwraiths, Lord of the Nazgûl, shadow of terror and despair."

Sam was on his feet in a blink of an eye. The other hobbits had heard this part of the tale in the Houses of Healing at Minas Tirith, but they visibly paled as well.

"Oh", Sam cried... "Not the one who...?" he stuttered at a loss for words.

Gandalf took his pipe out of his mouth. The pipe bowl glowed brightly, like a star in the darkness. He replied gravely

'You have met him, Samwise son of Hamfast, though he was far from home, veiled to your eyes, when he stalked the Ringbearer at Weathertop. Then he came forth in power again, growing as his Master grew, until he broke the gate of Minas Tirith, that no enemy ever yet had passed, and all fled before his face "

Gandalf bowed his head to Merry, almost reverently. "Thanks to your courage, Meriadoc, son of Saradoc, the world is finally free of the dreadful Shadow. Glad would have been the old Kings of Arnor if they could hear about your deed, as the sorcerer king of Angmar was chief among their foes."

Merry blushed, embarrassed by the Wizard's praise. "It was Eowyn really who killed him, not me," he said. "And you shouldn't praise my courage, becase I was very much afraid. I only moved to save my Lady. And..." he grinned mirthlessly, " had I known then that it was the very same Witch-King my nanny told me about, I could have hardly moved at all, as those tales were so scary." 

They sat for a while in silence, puffing at their pipes. Then Merry stirred.

"There is one thing I cannot understand, Gandalf. How can a Ringwraith pass for a regular Man? Back in Bree one of the nazgûl was just passing by, but still I began to tremble all over and felt that something horrible was creeping near. And when one touched me, I just went to pieces... And at the Pelennor I was so afraid I couldn't even think, or look up, or move... Even dogs and horses and geese felt how uncanny they were... And, to top it all, their bodies were invisible, weren't they?"

"You forget that the Witch-King was a great sorcerer in his own right", replied Gandalf quietly. "And at the time he still had his Ring, before Sauron collected the Nine to himself. So the Witch-King was able to control if not his real appearance, but at least the way others perceived him. He could even appear fair, provided the observer had no access to the Spirit World. There are few left in Middle Earth who can see the Unseen: only Lords of the Eldar who had once dwelt in the Blessed realm, the Wizards, or those who wore the Rings of Power. Those would not be fooled. But the rest of Men and Elves...at best they felt something was amiss, but by the middle of the Third Age the Ringwraiths were a tale long forgotten, and no one associated the King of Angmar with them."

Gandalf slowly turned the now empty pipe about, thinking of those long-past days. "And yet again we slept heedless of the danger. The Wise had been lulled by the long peace. Nobody perceived the danger when it lay at our doorstep."

"Once the Witch-King settled in the North and built Carn-Dûm, he started plotting. He wished to destroy all the Dunedain realms, but at first he acted only by stealth and deceit, choosing others as his weapons. He soon perceived that Rhudaur was the most vulnerable of the three Dunedain kingdoms – so it was there that he decided to strike first."

Gandalf started to fill his pipe again, smiling kindly at the hobbits. "Have patience, here starts our tale. You see, the last Dunedain King of Rhudaur, Tarnendur, came to power after a succession of usurpations and fratricides which had nearly destroyed the royal family – even while their Dunedain subjects had decreased from all the wars and other turmoils of the land. He himself sought to be a man of peace – and yearned for the days of greatness, and goodness, of friendship with the Eldar and the pursuit of knowledge and peace, but his kingdom held none of these. The Hillmen had infiltrated and lived among the Dunedain, and they were always discontented. Tarnendur had far less of an army than his predecessors, and so very few men who were versed in the lore of their people of old – and so many in the land had long followed the Black Arts, he could not imagine turning them all away so suddenly. Tarnendur himself had married a lady from Umbar, for he had once dwelt in Gondor – and they had a daughter, Gimilbeth."

"Was she the one who died at the Last Bridge?" Pippin inquired eagerly. All this talk about politics made him drowsy and he hoped to come to the interesting part again.

"No, not this one", replied Gandalf, shaking his hand. "Don't be so hasty, Pippin Took! It was Tarnendur's youngest daughter, Tarniel, who died here. Gimilbeth, unfortunately, took after her kin, Black Numenoreans from Umbar. Rumor has it she became a witch and the bane of her family."

"How dreadful!" cried Pippin, growing excited. "But what happened next?"

"Well… Tarnendur's wife died quite young. After many years, he married for a second time – most unusual for the Dunedain, who generally imitate the Elves in these… domestic matters. The new Queen Eilinel, from a noble family in Rhudaur, bore Tarnendur three children: two sons, Daurendil and Amantir, and a fair daughter, Tarniel. But Gimilbeth was not too happy to have her new brothers, as she had begun to hope she would become the first Ruling Queen of Rhudaur after her father's death."

"By the time Tarniel was fourteen, a new leader arose among the Hillmen. He was called Broggha. First a tribal chieftain, he bullied weaker chieftains into yielding power to him. Soon he was considered a rising great power, rivaling even the king of Rhudaur. Tarnendur, trying to placate the Hillmen, named Broggha his Counselor and Lord of Penmorva, in hopes that it would quell the unrest of his subjects. When Broggha came to take his position at the Council, he brought an army with him, rivaling the forces the King himself had. He was acclaimed as a savior by all the Hillmen of Tanoth Brin. Soon Broggha, in secret league with Angmar, put forth his plan to usurp the Crown."

Gandalf paused for a moment, drawing on his pipe in silence. The hobbits waited breathlessly for some horrors to come.

"First he seized the young Princess Tarniel and married her by force. She was but a child of fifteen, gentle and innocent, and he was a fifty year old brutish barbarian. Horrible to think what she had to suffer...Only her friend, Odaragariel of Mitheithel, remained by her side, perhaps only that helped the poor child to survive."

"Then Broggha cunningly eliminated the King's sons and at last the King himself, and claimed the throne as his own by right of his marriage to his daughter. Of the King's family only the Princess Gimilbeth remained alive, and that was only because the Witch-King of Angmar took a fancy to her himself..."

The hobbits listened wide-eyed, pipes forgotten in their hands.

Gandalf smiled suddenly. "Yet not everything was dark in this world of sorrow. Some valiant young men took the plight of the princesses to heart. Beleg, Malvegil's grandson, later known as King Arveleg of Arthedain, vowed to rescue Tarniel. The princess was once his betrothed, although he had never met her. Prince Beleg gathered a few companions and ventured into Rhudaur late in the year 1348, to discover what they might. They stole into the royal fortress and bore away young Tarniel, wife of the hill king, and her companion Odaragariel of Mitheithel."

"And thus the Princesses were rescued. But it proved to be too late for Tarniel. During their flight, she paused at the Last Bridge over Mitheithel and cast herself into it, for she despaired over the hillman's child she carried within her. But the others safely returned to Amon Sul just after the Yule in early 1349 – where Beleg learned that his grandfather had died, that his father was now King Argeleb, and that he himself was Heir to Arthedain. In later years, he married the young princess Odaragariel whom he had rescued – and she was the last of the House of the Princes of Mithiethel."

The hobbits sighed happily, relieved that such a sad story proved to have a decently happy ending. Perhaps it could still be classified under the category "Stories about the Rescue of Princesses" that Gandalf excelled in telling - so long ago in the peaceful Shire.

The night was turning cold. Thanking the wizard for his tale, the hobbits slipped quietly into their bedrolls, turned toward the dying embers of the fire. Soon they were asleep and dreaming of the wild land of crags and waterfalls, of noble Dunedain and evil Hillmen, fair maidens and brutish barbarians, cruelty and valor, of days long past and remembered by few, that Gandalf's tale recalled for them so vividly.

Written by Gordis and Valandil


	2. Story Timeline

Timeline: A listing of major events, as given by Tolkien, of relevance to our story.

Second Age:  
c. 1600 Sauron makes the One Ring  
c. 2251 The Nazgul appear  
3319 The Fall of Numenor  
3320 Elendil founds Arnor in the North, his sons found Gondor in the South.  
3429-3441 Sauron attacks, the War of the Last Alliance and the Seige of Mordor.  
3441 The Fall of Sauron, the deaths of Gil-galad and Elendil, High Kings of Elves and Men. End of the Second Age.

Third Age:  
2 Disaster of the Gladden Fields – death of Isildur and his three elder sons.  
861 Division of Arnor into; Arthedain, Cardolan, Rhudaur  
c. 1000 The Istari – or Wizards – appear in Middle Earth  
c. 1150 Ancestors of the Shire Hobbits cross the Misty Mountains west into Eriador.  
c. 1300 Establishment of Angmar, north and east of Arnor's daughter kingdoms, by the Witch-King, Chief of the Nazgul. Some Hobbits move to Bree.  
1347-1349 The time of our story! (not per JRRT, of course)  
1349 King Argeleb I comes to the throne of Arthedain, The descendants of Isildur having died out in Cardolan and Rhudaur, he lays claim to all Arnor once more, but Rhudaur resists his claim.  
1356 King Argeleb I slain in battle with Rhudaur & Angmar.  
1409 Combined army from Angmar and Rhudaur attacks Arthedain and Cardolan. Amon Sul (Weathertop) is destroyed, and King Arveleg I slain. Last Prince of Cardolan slain. King Araphor holds out at Fornost, to where the Palantir of Amon Sul had been carried. Remnant of Dunedain in Rhudaur flee or are slain.  
1601 Argeleb II makes land grant of The Shire to Hobbits.  
1636 The Great Plague destroys the remaining Dunedain of Cardolan. Evil Spirits from Angmar and Rhudaur occupy the Barrow Downs.  
1974 The Witch-King over-runs Fornost and the North Kingdom of Arnor/Arthedain comes to an end.  
1975 King Arvedui of Arthedain drowns in the Ice Bay of Forochel, but the army of Angmar is crushed by joint forces from Gondor and Lindon.  
2941-42 Bilbo's adventure with the Dwarves – to Erebor, The Lonely Mountain – as recounted in "The Hobbit".  
3018-3019 The major events recounted in "The Lord of the Rings."

List of contemporary rulers

Rhudaur:

King Tarnendur, born 1190; King of Rhudaur since 1323, dwelt in Gondor before he gained the Crown. Descendant of Isildur and Dauremir, 157 years old.  
Inzilbeth, Tarnendur's late first wife: (daughter of Serinde) from Umbar. She died in childbirth in 1256  
Queen Eilinel, Tarnendur's present wife (since 1324): a Dunedain Lady from Rhudaur. 66 years old

Tarnendur's children:  
Gimilbeth (daughter of Inzilbeth) born 1240 in Gondor. 107 years old.  
Daurendil, King's Heir (son of Eilinel) born 1327 in Cameth Brin. 20 years old  
Amantir (son of Eilinel) born 1330 in Cameth Brin. 17 years old  
Tarniel (daughter of Eilinel) born 1333 in Cameth Brin. 14 years old

Arthedain:  
King Malvegil of Arthedain at Fornost (b. 1144), 203 years old  
Celebrindol, his son and Heir (b. 1226) who later became King Argeleb I, 121 years old  
Beleg, son of Celebrindol (b. 1309) who later became King Arveleg I, 38 years old

Angmar:  
The Witch-King, Lord of the Nazgul, about 3000 years old at this time

Gondor:  
Minalcar (b. 1126), regent 1240-1304, crowned as Rómendacil II in 1304, he is the one who built the pillars of the Argonath.  
Valacar son of Minalcar (b.1194), married to a Rhovanion princess, Vidumavi.  
Eldacar son of Valacar (at first called Vinitharya), b. 1255

The list is based on LOTR Appendix A and on HOME 12. The characters in Rhudaur are original.

Notes

"Northern Kingdom Writers" is a group of seven members: Gordis, Angmar, Elfhild, Rian, Serenoli, Valandil and Earniel. Check out our site (link in our profile) and join our RPG if you like the story!


	3. Runaways and Outlaws

TA 1347, September 22. Early morning.  
The stablemaster's house on the Tanoth Methed estate, Kingdom of Rhudaur  
Written by Rian

"Wake up, wake up, it's time to go!"

Caelen slowly opened her eyes. She looked up at her brother, blinking hard and trying to make sense of what he was saying. Callon grinned, despite the tension he felt, and shook her again.

"Sleepyhead! You never could get up!"

"Did I fall asleep, then?"

"Obviously, or I wouldn't be waking you!"

She sat up suddenly as her mind awoke to the situation. She shot an anxious look at her brother, which he answered with a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"He'll be asleep for a while yet," he said grimly, jerking his chin towards the great house. "He came stumbling home roaring drunk just a couple of hours ago."

Caelen was somewhat reassured, but still got up quickly and put on her riding clothes. Her brother waited quietly, keeping watch out of the window.

"I'm ready now," she said, and he turned to her and gently placed the cloak he had been carrying in his arms around her shoulders.

The brother and sister mounted their horses with the ease of long-time riders. Callon took the lead rope of the third horse that was carrying some supplies, and they rode quietly down the lane, away from the great house.

"So, where are we going?" asked Caelen when it was safe to speak. "Not that it matters much, as long as it's away from ...," and she made the same movement with her chin towards the house as her brother had done earlier. She had never liked speaking that name, and liked it even less since the news that her brother had brought back to her that afternoon.

"Well, let's see ... where are we going? Let's just say we're going to seek our fortune, like in the stories of old," Callon answered with an effort to sound cheerful. "How does that sound?"

"Fine with me," his sister replied with a little smile. "It might take awhile to find, though," she continued with a sigh, "we've had very little of it lately! At least the good type," she added grimly. "So, what direction shall we start looking in?"

"Let's ride by our goodbye-hill so we get a good start, and then just give our horses their heads for a bit," suggested Callon, although he had a very good idea of where he wanted to go, and intended to unobtrusively help his horse go that way if it didn't head there by itself. He had faint memories of a sister of his mother who lived near Cameth Brin, and some merry cousins - it would be good for his sister to be around family again.

Caelen nodded, and they rode in silence until they reached the top of the hill that overlooked their former home. There was no need to rein in the horses; they paused there from long custom.

"Good-bye," said Caelen softly, looking down at the charred ruins of the house as if the well-loved family were there again, smiling and waving up at them. She sighed, and then turned towards the tree under whose spreading branches that family now lay. "Good-bye," she repeated, and bit her lip to keep the tears back.

"Good-bye," her brother echoed, and clenched his jaw. He raised his hand in salute, and then turned his horse eastward, heading towards the faint streaks of light that were just starting to break through the darkness.

Two weeks later (Morning of October 5, 1347) in North-Western Rhudaur.  
Written by Gordis

Five dangerous-looking men were camping by the bank of the Morva River. Their unkempt hair and long untrimmed beards spoke of long days in the wilderness. Men's clothes were worn and faded, except for the darker spots on their chests and sleeves where apparently some badges were formerly attached. However, their long swords and bows looked to be well tended, and even in camp, each wore a vicious-looking dagger attached to his belt. Three horses were tethered nearby.

Algeirr, their leader, sat with his back to the trunk of an oak-tree, wearily watching his companions. Kvigr and Gunni had a kettle boiling over the fire, while Uffi and Meldun were skinning a young deer the men were lucky to shoot for breakfast. The company were half starved after their long hike all the way from Northern Arthedain. The country they crossed was flat and barren, there was little food to be found and the way-bread they have stolen from their garrison mess was finished long ago.

Algeirr sighted and scratched his scalp. His long matted gray-brown hair was crawling with lice...Perhaps he should wash it with that Kingsfoil plant, which his haughty commanders revered so much. "At least one learns useful things serving those Tarks..." Algeirr thought chuckling.

Their six-year service in the Arthedain army proved a disaster. There was very little to gain guarding the Arthedain border at Rhammas Formen on the North side of the North Downs. No enemy in sight, drills day and night, and haughty condescension from their tall Dunedain commanders. And no girls... the squat dirty Lossoth women not counting. One must be really desperate to go for them...

Algeirr swore and spat, aiming at a little buttercup, but missed.

So, one night, not waiting for the end of their ten-year contract, he and his mates from Rhudaur, quietly slipped away from the camp and headed home across country, making for Nothwa Rhaglow. Algeirr grinned. There they have stolen three horses, not enough for five men, but it still allowed them to take turns riding. Now they traveled faster.

"Come, Algeirr! The stew is ready!" called Kvigr, the youngest and the liveliest of the bunch. He was a fine lanky lad, good-natured and clever for his age.

Algeirr's mood brightened considerably. He rose and joined the company. For a long time all were silent, gulping down the stew ravenously. When their hunger was sated, the one-eyed Uffi got out a half-empty bottle of golden root liquor and sent it around. Old Meldun produced his flute and started a merry tune. The others joined in a chorus, frightening birds and squirrels in the trees nearby.

Algeirr got away and sat on the bank of the stream halfheartedly chewing a piece of meat impaled on the tip of his long dagger. He had led the company home safely, but now he had to decide on a course to take. Joining the King's army was appealing to him little. He had more than enough of the Tarks, curse them. Going home to his native village in Eastern Rhudaur hasn't ever occurred to him. His parents were dead, and he cared little about his siblings. Let them look after themselves.

Finally he decided to stay in the camp till dawn, allowing his men and horses to rest, then cross the Morva and head for the city of Penmorva. Algeirr had been in the fortress several times, perhaps he would find something to do there. He had a buddy in the Count's guards, perhaps he would help. If not, then there were always roads, and there were travelers on the roads, and the travelers had money. Algeirr laughed. One only had to ask... 

Broggha's camp at Morva Torch, October 5, 1347, late afternoon.  
Written by Angmar

Griss, scout and spy for Jarl Broggha, was just returning to the sheltering trees surrounding the camp where Jarl Broggha had set up his temporary headquarters.

Not that it was even easy getting back to the camp, for the Jarl insisted upon the greatest of security measures. Heggr, who had been hiding amidst the underbrush, had slithered behind him somehow. Unaware of his presence, Griss had been surprised when he had found Heggr behind him, his knife pressed to his throat.

"Why did you do that, Heggr, you fool?"

"Because, you idiot, you were crashing through the forest like a runaway horse. I could not help but hear you!"

Heggr was enjoying Griss' distress. Heggr was tempted to have a little more fun by letting the knife slip a little. Griss' tunic was as filthy as the rest of the men, and a little bit of blood would hardly be noticeable.

"I will say one thing for you, Griss, you managed to get by the sentry without detection. You are never supposed to do that, you know."

"I just wanted to see if he was alert," Griss snarled, definitely uncomfortable with that knife pressed so close to his jugular vein.

"Sure," Heggr replied in that condescending way he had.

At last Heggr sheathed his knife, but Griss felt like punching the man a good one in the face. He would refrain there, because the Jarl had ordered, "No trouble in the camp, or answer to me personally." No one wanted to answer to the Jarl personally because the giant, red-haired, red-bearded man had a violent temper. One look into the Jarl's piercing blue eyes was enough to chill the blood in many a man's veins.

"I have to get back to my outer patrolling duties, but you go on in." 

Heggr had the irritating habit of sticking his finger in his mouth and digging at a tooth that had gone bad. He was doing it at that moment and Griss didn't like it. It would be doing him a favor to knock that rotten tooth out. Maybe, Griss thought, if Heggr kept doing that, he might knock all his teeth down his ugly mouth.

When Griss walked into the clearing where the camp was, the Jarl was just coming out of the doorway of his makeshift shelter of logs. Griss could hear loud weeping inside.  
"Sounds like Aewen crying again," he thought. "The Jarl likes to use her hard, and when she complains, well," he smiled to himself, "he beats her. Just what he should do with her, fine airs and all... says she has noble blood, some kin to the Rhuduarian king. She will learn better sooner or later, or he will beat her to death." 

Maleneth, the Jarl's other thrall, was tending to the bubbling soup pot. As Jarl Broggha passed, she looked up at him uncertainly, almost cringing, preparing for a blow that never came. The Jarl walked by her with no more concern than if she had been a fly.

Not that they weren't both fine looking women and any man among them would like to have either as thrall... but they were both Tarks. If a woman like that should chance to take your sword some night... Griss didn't like to think about that. The Jarl had no trouble with either one, though, though Griss knew that both women loathed the leader. After all, there wasn't much left of their village after he pulled that raid a couple years ago.

"The Jarl knows how to treat women," Griss thought to himself, proud of his leader, the chieftain who had risen to great power among the hill men. They would do his bidding , follow his orders without questioning. Griss smiled in satisfaction.

"What news?" the big, red-bearded man asked. The Jarl was much taller than Griss and he had to look up to him.

"Jarl, five men camped a few miles up the way... renegades, deserters from the army, maybe. They had a few flea-bitten nags, nothing worth taking. For that matter, they are nothing but transients, vagrants."

"Did you hear any names while you were listening in?"

"Yes, the leader's name, Algeirr. Kvigr, a young lad, but no more. To get any closer might have brought me a lot of trouble."

The Jarl grinning one of those one-sided smiles of his, and you never knew if he was in a good mood or a bad mood. You just had to take your chances. Griss hoped that the information had been pleasing, hoped for his own sake. The Jarl had a nasty side sometimes, and he did more than just beat a man senseless... Griss didn't like to think about that volunteer who had displeased the Jarl. Broggha had ordered him skinned alive. Griss could still hear the man screaming in his mind, but after a while you got used to things like that. They didn't bother you at all.

"Maybe these men could be used. You never know." The Jarl still had that one-sided smile and Griss felt uncomfortable. You never knew when he smiled like that. "I want you and Heggr to take them a little gift... a keg of ale. Talk to them a while. See what their grievances are. Ask them how long it has been since they have seen real silver coins. Do not emphasize the silver. You know that, Griss."

The Jarl was looking at him with those cold blue eyes and Griss felt a shiver of fear run up his spine.

"You know I won't Jarl. I won't say anything stupid. I will just let them know easy like that you might, just might... be looking for some good men."

The Jarl turned and looked back to Maleneth. "Worthless woman! Is that stew ever going to be cooked! Go on now, Griss. I need to deal with her." 

Waiting for Maleneth to serve him his meal, Jarl Broggha sat upon a wolf pelt-covered section of log in front of the makeshift hut which comprised his temporary headquarters. The Jarl was expecting some very important guests from the North, and he had a number of kegs of ale which he felt should impress them. He was impatient for his food to be served, and his impatience showed when he rose to his towering height and bellowed, "Maleneth! Where is my food?" When the Jarl was angry, his voice was quite strident and carried far beyond the perimeters of the compound.

Walking into the clearing followed by two other serving women carrying platters of food, the stately, full-figured Maleneth approached the Jarl and inclined her head. Scowling at the women, Broggha accepted their offering. Though his hunger for food and drink was soon appeased by the ample quantities of venison, stew, bread, autumn fruits and ale, his appetite for the woman had begun to stir. He pulled Maleneth fiercely down to his lap and kissed her greedily. Knowing what was in store for her, the lovely woman sighed in resignation and accepted his caresses.  
His intentions, however, were interrupted by the arrival of two of his soldiers.

"Jarl," the spokesman explained hurriedly, "the men that you were expecting have arrived!"

Giving Maleneth a push off his lap, the Jarl rose to his feet and turned to the soldiers. "Bring them to my lodgings as soon as possible."

"Yes, Jarl, it will be done as you have ordered." The men bowed and left.

Broggha stood in the doorway to the hut and frowned at the three women. "Much rests on this meeting, so give my guests anything they want."

The Jarl inhaled deeply of the brisk autumn air and saw all Rhudaur spread open before him. He would not always be fighting other chieftains for territory or living in huts in the woods. Someday he would be titled, landed and married to the king's own daughter and establish his own dynasty. Perhaps Maleneth and Aewen could be her ladies in waiting. He laughed to himself.


	4. The Jarl's Men

In the camp by the Morva river, early morning, October 6, 1347.  
Written by Gordis and Angmar

Kvigr had the last pre-dawn watch this night. The lad always slept like a baby, so Uffi, the sentry before him, poked him in the ribs repeatedly and then aimed a few vicious kicks at his backside.

"Get up, you worthless baby!"

Uffi's voice and kicks meant an unpleasant interruption of a sweet dream about home and Hegga, the girl from the nearby farm, who had such full breasts and big innocent blue eyes...

For a while Kvigr just walked around the camp blinking and trying to get rid of the last snatches of his dream. Soon, when the first diffuse pre-dawn light illuminated the camp, his head cleared, and he took in his surroundings. Kvigr had an artistic side to his nature, so the beauty of the first light dawning on golden autumn leaves was not wasted on him. The dark, swift waters of the Morva were swirling with fallen leaves: yellow birch leaves and red aspen leaves, round as coins. Kvigr smiled: there was no better place in the whole wide world than home.

Kvigr stood on the bank of the river singing softly and watching the dance of leaves in the stream, when he was suddenly hailed from another bank. The lad swallowed, startled, and looked across the river at the approaching men, his bow at the ready.

Both looked like dangerous brigands with their long swords and daggers, scarred, weather-worn faces, unkempt beards and dirty clothing. One was carrying a large keg, while the other, older one, was grinning at Kvigr with brown, rotten teeth.

"Hail, lad, aren't there some grown-ups about?" sneered the older man.

Kvigr blushed furiously: he knew he had been a poor sentry to let these men approach unnoticed. Now only the narrow, swift stream separated them. He opened his mouth to answer, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Algeirr was now standing at his side, his bow drawn, but the tip of the vicious black arrow pointing downwards. Kvigr sighed in relief: their leader was known to sleep like a cat, ready to spring up at the slightest sound.

"Who are you and what is it you want?" asked Algeirr levelly.

The brigand, who was sucking at his thumb for some reason, muttered in reply " We bring you a keg of ale and a greeting... from Jarl Broggha."

Algeirr paused, thinking quickly. He had heard of this Broggha, even before he left for Arthedain. An outlaw and a brigand he was, but a lucky one. Then when they were already in the Arthedain army, a man from Nothwa Rhaglow told them there was trouble at home, Broggha gathering more and more men to him, raiding villages and small towns.

"What does he want?" Algeirr's voice was hoarse.

The other man put down his keg and replied, smiling nervously, "We can't shout like that across the river. Let us come to your bank. We shall drink the ale together and talk." 

Algeirr frowned, but nodded. With a shrill whistle, he warned his men of the approaching danger. Soon Gunni, Meldun and Uffi joined Algeirr and Kvigr at the bank, their long swords at the ready. 

Without much ado, the strangers took off their boots and pants and waded into the river. The water must have been cold, as the older one let out an obscene exclamation and gripped his cheek as if his teeth pained him. After much cursing and nearly slipping a few times, the men were on the nearest bank and were led to the camp fire.

As they crossed the frigid Morva River, Griss carried the keg of beer on his shoulder. "Heggr probably would have dropped it in midstream anyway," Griss thought. Heggr was always too occupied with his aching jaw and sore joints. Of course, Heggr's teeth hurt him. "If you could call them teeth," Griss thought. They looked more like decaying kernels of corn. The thing Griss liked about Heggr, though, was that the man didn't complain too much. Griss had also learned that he was a good man to have behind your back.

On the opposite bank, Griss and Heggr quickly dressed and introduced themselves. The five other men's introductions consisted of mumbled replies. They eyed Griss and Heggr as suspiciously as they were eyed in return.

"Then you are the leader?" Griss looked Algeirr in the eye.

"Yes, you could say that. But why do you want to know?" the man asked suspiciously.

Griss and Heggr did not like the way that the young bowman kept his arrow aimed towards them as the three men talked. Gunni, Uffi and Meldun, all alert, spent almost much as much time looking at the keg that Griss had put up against the base of the tree as they did at the two intruders. Maybe they were planning to murder Griss and Heggr, rifle their bodies, take the keg and then disappear into the forest. Griss was growing more nervous, but he was glad to see that Heggr was now grinning. The man liked to keep his mouth closed as much as possible, because the cold air hurt his decaying teeth.

"I will be honest with you... my chieftain knows everyone who comes into this area. We are thinking you might be deserters from the Arthedain army."

Out of the corner of his eye, Griss caught a slight movement from Kvigr and wondered if he were about to let an arrow fly. Gunni, Uffi and Meldun kept their hands close to their weapons, but the leader only moved his head slightly from side to slide.

"You figure it out, but go on," Algeirr stated coolly.

"Then I will get right on with it. My comrade and I are in the employ of Jarl Broggha. Surely you know of this man?"

"I have heard things," he replied noncommittally.

"I don't know what you might have heard, but I will tell you what is true. For the past few years, the Jarl has steadily increased in power until now he is one of the strongest and most wealthy men in all Rhudaur."

Meldun laughed. "As powerful as the king?"

Griss turned to him and looked him in the eye. "More powerful," he quietly replied.

The other men gazed at Griss and could see by his calm look that he probably wasn't lying. Heggr still kept grinning. Gunni, Uffi and Meldun were not too sure, though; you could never tell when the Arthedain army might be sending out disguised men to round up deserters.

"Interesting," Algeirr glanced at Kvigr, who turned the point of his arrow to the ground.

"But what has this to do with us ?" Algeirr looked to Griss.

"The Jarl could always use a few more fighting men with experience who have the good sense to know how the wind blows."

"And what might be in it for us?"

"Possibly gold, positions, and help from powerful friends."

"Hmmm... no, that does not sound too bad, does it, men?"

Nods of affirmation from the deserters put an even wider grin on Heggr's face.

"Then why don't we just openly open that keg of beer and all sit down to discuss this?"

"Sounds agreeable to me," nodded the outlaw leader.

Inwardly, Griss felt very relieved. If these men proved to be of any value to the Jarl, Broggha would be pleased with him. If they didn't - Griss might get a few broken ribs or worse for it - but the five deserters would be very, very dead. Heggr started to grin, but a breeze of cold air quickly had him slapping a hand over his aching jaw and closing his mouth.

In two hours the keg of beer was almost empty, and the bones of the yesterday's deer were picked clean of meat. Heggr and Griss, now relaxed and feeling at ease, told many stories about Jarl Broggha: his famous luck and his cruelty, his prowess in battle and his treatment of prisoners and his own men.

In the midst of a story about an obese tark boiled alive, Kvigr left the company, feeling nauseated. He saw many a cruel punishment, but nothing of the kind of what seemed to be the rule in Broggha's army. "They may be Tarks," thought Kviggr, "but they are our own people, not some orcs or wargs... They made our country what it is". 

He fetched a fishing line from his pack, dug some worms and settled at the bank of the Morva, hoping for a good catch. He didn't want to join the Jarl. All he was looking forward to was to return to his village, and see his parents and Hegga. His heart skipped a beat when he thought of the girl. Perhaps, he could find some job in the village, or in Pennmorva town, and start a family...

Meanwhile, Algeirr and Griss, sitting slightly apart from the others, were discussing the terms.

"How many are you now?" asked Algeirr.

"Two or three thousand" replied Griss with a smile. "More than the King has. And his men are deserting all the time and joining us. Soon we will march on Cameth Brin and get rid of the old Tark."

Griss's eyes twinkled at the prospect. He looked at the mercenary, but Algeirr's long dark face was as wooden as usual, the lips pressed tightly together, eyes unreadable. They sat in silence for a while, Griss starting to get nervous again.

"I want to be the head of my men" said Algeirr with finality, his icy eyes firmly locked with Griss's. "And I will answer to no one, but the Jarl himself. And I want more money than I would get in the King's army. Can you promise me that?"

Griss shifted uneasily: the Jarl had been somewhat vague about the terms. He tried to conceal his uncertainty as best he could.

"Let us go see the Jarl." invited Griss. 'You will hear the terms from his own mouth. I bet, he will be mightily pleased to have your men and yourself, the seasoned warriors you are. You will get what you want."

He watched Algeirr nervously, and his heart leapt when he saw the man nod.

Soon the company crossed the river and headed North to the Morva Torch camp.  
Kvigr followed, it was just the right direction for home. "I will stay but one night," he decided, "and then I shall be off. The Jarl has men enough, he doesn't need me."


	5. Ambush on the Road

Near the Morva river, late morning, October 6, 1347.

Written by Rian

Caelen glanced at her brother. He was definitely more watchful than before. Since they had left the last inn, where they had been warned about the roads, they had travelled much more carefully and quietly - the feeling of adventure that she had just been beginning to enjoy was now replaced with a looming fear of outlaws on the road.

"Stupid, greedy men!" she thought in frustration, angry at the extra precautions they had needed to adopt. Her mind played over the last two weeks, since idle talking was out of the question right now.

A stupid, greedy man was the reason they were even on the road in the first place. The eldest son of the largest thanehold in the area was rich enough to not have to marry for money, and for reasons that Caelen couldn't understand, had apparently fixed on her. And Brun was used to getting what he wanted.

Both Callon and Caelen had their suspicions about who had started the fire - Brun's family had always seemed to be jealous of their family, especially since Caelen's father had turned down Brun's tentative inquiries after his daughter in no uncertain terms. Then came the fire, and the deaths of their parents and older brothers - but Caelen's mind passed over that and went on to when they had ended up at the stablemaster's house. Brun's father had extended an offer to Callon to run his stables, and he also offered to let them put up their surviving horses for free. He offered a very generous salary, and Callon thought it best to take the job for a year or so, even though they both disliked the family, in order to give their land time to recover and to earn some money to rebuild. If he had only himself to consider, he would probably have chosen differently, but he now had his sister to consider, too, and he thought this path would enable them to be back on their own land sooner.

Things had gone smoothly for almost a year. Brun had been with this girl and then that, and had kept his attentions down to an occasional leer in Caelen's direction. But in September, things changed, and Brun became more pointed in his attentions - even almost polite - which was far worse than his rudeness, because the politeness was feigned - obviously only a cover to try to get something he wanted.

Then came that Wednesday - September 21st - and the overheard conversation. Callon had headed into town to pick up some leather for a bridle he was working on. He had been quietly looking among the pieces in the back, when the door opened and Brun strode in, along with some of his friends. Overhearing their conversation, Callon realized with a sick feeling that this man was determined to have his sister one way or another, and that in order to save her from this brute of a man, he had to take his sister and flee - and soon. Callon stayed frozen in the back of the store until Brun and his friends left, and then quickly and quietly left, formulating his plans to get his sister to a safe place as he walked quickly back to the stablemaster's house.

And so they found themselves on the road, trying to avoid still more greedy men. Caelen bit her lower lip in frustration - what had happened to the safe world she had known growing up? She looked around, trying not to see robbers behind every tree.

The horses picked their way in their delicate, sure-footed manner over logs and around the thicker undergrowth in the forest. Giving in to his increasing uneasiness over the reports of robbers on the road, Callon had decided to make the last part of their journey in a more covert manner. Decidedly slower, but he judged it was the lesser of two evils, especially traveling with a woman. By the grace of Eru, he had been able to save his sister from one brute, and at this point, he wasn't about to ignore any precautions that he could possibly take to preserve her from an even more evil fate. Hillmen were not known for their delicacy in their treatment of women.

The mares (he had left their prize stallion in the care of his best friend; stallions can be inconvenient to travel with if accompanied by a mare) were well-suited to the task, despite their seeming delicacy. Callon's father bred for beauty, yes; but strength and durability were even more important, and their horses were known for their surefootedness and good sense. Horses, like people, come with different amounts of sense.

Although they were trying to be quiet, a horse can't help making more noise than a human, and the strength, speed and heart of the horses were about to be tested as Callon, reaching a particularly dense patch of undergrowth, decided to return to the road.

On the road near Morva Torch. October 6, 1347, afternoon

Written by Gordis and Rian

Moving silently through the forest, the company of outlaws soon approached the paved road leading from Nothva Rhaglaw to Morva Torch. Heggr was the first on the road. He sucked in the cold air to say something, but clapped his hand over his mouth instead. At this moment, the others heard it: the distant sound of horses approaching from the West. Both Griss and Algeirr dropped to the ground simultaneously listening to the hoof beats. Rising, Algeirr showed three fingers to the company. Griss nodded. With an imperative gesture, Algeirr directed Griss and Heggr to the other side of the road, while motioning to his own men to hide in the thick bushes on the nearest side.

Algeirr remained alone in the middle of the road, his sword still in his scabbard. When the horses appeared from around a road bend, he was already walking slowly towards Morva Torch, head bowed, and shoulders hunched wearily, as if he were a lonely traveler on a long journey.

Gulping from excitement, Kvigr notched his arrow, watching the road. He never knew whom he supposed to see, perhaps a couple of brigands, or worse, but the aspect of the travelers made him open his mouth and lower his bow.

There was a young man in decent clothes and with a long sword and a Tark girl in her tweens, dark-haired and lovely. Both were mounted on a swift thoroughbred horses, still fresh and prancing. A pack horse followed.

Noticing Algeirr, who stopped and was waiting for them, the riders slowed. Algeirr raised his empty hands in a gesture of friendship and hailed them in a weary rasping voice.

"Greetings, my Lord and Lady. I mean you no harm. My name is Einarr son of Hrani. I am returning home from my many travels. But my village is far away, and I am unfamiliar with these roads. Could you tell me if this road leads to Cameth Brin?"

Callon's heart leapt into his throat. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid, but the dense undergrowth had forced them to return to the road against his will. Turning his head slightly towards his sister, but keeping his eyes on the unknown man, he said quietly but firmly to her, "If I tell you to run, then run for your life, Cae. I mean it - don't look back for me." Algeirr didn't understand the language, but could make a pretty good guess at what was said by the widening of the girl's eyes.

Callon moved his horse so that he was between his sister and the man. "Yes, this is the road, I believe" he answered, making sure his sword was readily available. "But we are far from home ourselves and do not know the area well." His eyes flicked to the forest, where he thought he saw some movement, and he added, "We lost our home in a terrible fire, and are traveling in hopes of finding some family that can take us in," hoping that this would convey, if the man was indeed a thief, that they had nothing worth attempting to steal.

"I am indeed sorry to hear that," Algeirr answered smoothly. "Fate has been unkind to us both." He dropped his hands and took a step towards the pair, feigning sympathy.

"Come no closer!" cried Callon, and half-drew his sword. "I am sorry to distrust you, but in these difficult times, I am forced to be wary against my inclinations." Algeirr raised his hands in an "I understand" type of gesture and took a step back. Caelen's mare tossed her head nervously as some birds flew out of the undergrowth.

"If you are in need of food, we can spare a little out of our slight stores, but we can give you no other aid than that, and we must be going."

"I thank you for your kindness," said Algeirr, his voice suddenly changing, "but I will be wanting much more than food ... as we speak, you and the pretty lady are being covered by my bowmen in the woods. If you don't struggle, then you will probably keep your lives. If you do, well, I would hate to see an arrow through the lady's lovely white throat..."

"Brigand! Coward!" said Callon in contempt. "And I have a hundred men at arms just around the bend of the road, likewise invisible," he said, hoping that the man was bluffing, and if not, hoping to see what strength the man actually had. "I advise that you take our food, generously offered out of compassion for a fellow traveler, and do evil no more, for retribution will come for evildoers, though sometimes it tarries to give a chance at redemption."

"My men may be invisible, but their arrows are not," responded Algeirr icily, and raising his arm, he called out to Kvigr, "Shoot an arrow over the road!"

With a whine and a thud, an arrow flew across the road and sank deep into a tree. He looked at Caelen, and though he saw fear in her eyes, which he had expected, he also saw a fire there, which he had not expected. She saw his look and lifted her chin defiantly.

Callon untied the pack horse's lead rope from his saddle and gave it a push towards Algeirr.

"Take this and be satisfied!" he said contemptuously, and then, betting everything that there was only one archer in the woods and that he would be the target instead of his sister, and hoping the pack horse would be enough of a distraction, said to his sister softly in that same language he used earlier, "Fly, Caelen!" Flight and possible death were preferable to what they were all too likely to find at the hands of these brigands.

Caelen looked at her brother, wondering if she had heard right. Callon took his reins and gave the pack horse a whip that sent him snorting and prancing in astonishment towards the man in the road. He then urged his mare forward and gave Caelen's mare a whip and a shout to get them going, always keeping himself in the line of fire between his sister and where he thought the archer was in the woods.

Algeirr stumbled out of the way of the frightened pack horse, cursing loudly and yelling, "Kvigr! Stop them! Shoot!"

Kvigr had already set an arrow to the string, waiting for Algeirr's next command. He sighted and shot, aiming at the male Tark's horse. He was a good shot and had good position. The arrow sank into the mare's hindquarters, and she screamed and stumbled. It was a beautiful horse, and he didn't like to shoot it, but he didn't want to get blamed for the escape, either. Life was full of tough luck, and he had had his share. Now, perhaps, there would be some rewards for his skill and presence of mind, and he could go home richer than when he left.

Callon was thrown hard onto the road as the mare fell to her knees and then jerked up again, holding her injured hind leg up off the road in distress. Caelen felt her brother and his mare leave her side and pulled up in confusion.

"Go! GO!!" shouted Callon, as he tried to get up and failed, stunned and bleeding from a wound to his head. "Fly!"

Caelen saw the hated Einarr closing in on her brother as he was still helpless on the ground, and she never hesitated. She wheeled her mare around and flew - but towards her brother, not away from him.

"NO!" Callon shouted in agony, his bloodied face distorted with pain, and even worse, fear for his sister. He cared nothing for his own life now - if his sister could get away, let them kill him. Just as Einarr came up behind her brother with a drawn knife in his hand, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back, she ran her mare hard right at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw several other men run onto the road, but she didn't care. She could never leave her brother, and preferred dying with him to living without him. She didn't stop to think that they might kill him and leave her alive to live a life worse than death.

Einarr released his grip on her brother and dove to the side of the road. The mare, nimble-footed, avoided Callon lying on the road. The other men ran up to Callon and soon had him immobilized. Caelen wheeled her mare around again and stopped, unsure what to do. It was now seven to one against her, and they had her brother, still alive.


	6. Captured

On the road near Morva Torch, afternoon of October 6, 1347.

Written by Gordis, Angmar and Rian

Now all the band was on the road, clustered together around Algeirr and the Tark. Algeirr drew the man's wrists together and secured them with a piece of rope he always had in his pocket, just for occasions like that.

The young prisoner lifted his head from the dirt of the roadbed to shout something to his wench, but Algeirr's backhand blow across the mouth stopped his words. The Tark coughed, spitting blood from his bruised lips.

The woman wheeled her mare around and stopped, looking at them, apparently unsure what to do. Algeirr grinned back at her, and pulled out his long gleaming dagger.

"Get off your horse, wench, and come here," he beckoned hoarsely.

The girl looked back, defiance and contempt in her eyes. She was comely indeed. Algeirr's mouth watered, as he eyed her breasts and tights lecherously. He could show her a thing or two after all these long years in the country of Lossoth...

"Look what I will do to your man if you don't!"

Holding the Tark by his long hair, Algeirr moved his knife across the exposed throat. A thin red line appeared.

"I will cut his head off slowly, small cut after small cut, if you don't surrender immediately. You will do it eventually, you know it already. Just don't let him be hurt more than needed. Hurry up!"

Algeirr was going to use his knife again when slowly, very slowly, as in a dream, the girl slid from her horse and started walking towards them, her anxious eyes riveted to the captive man.

"No, Cae, NO!" the Tark whispered, but it was too late. Griss and Heggr already gripped the girl's arms, while Uffi got hold of her fine mare.

Algeirr gave the Tark a vicious kick with his boot, which sent him sprawling into the mud again, and approached the girl.

"Look, lads, what a little dainty we have here," he grinned. His brown callused fingers found the girl's breasts beneath her velvet tunic and pinched the nipples. "Like ripe strawberries ready for plucking!"

The girl seemed to come out of her stupor and started to fight back feebly, earning much amusement from the company and more pinches on her tights and bottom. Finally she stopped, seeing it was useless, but her eyes spoke her contempt.

"Cowards!" she hissed, as she tried to keep back the tears that she knew would only amuse them more.

Kviggr swallowed, feeling aroused and disgusted at the same time. He had never before been a robber on the road, but, knowing his band as he did by now, he had little doubt what was about to happen.

"There is one thing about it," Griss thought to himself, "Algeirr knows his business!" Griss had watched in fascination as the outlaw's knife sliced across the worthless Tark's neck, drawing a fine line of blood. Griss hoped that Algeirr would slice the fool's head off right there. He had never seen anyone slowly beheaded, bit by bit. He licked his lips in anticipation as he thought of how appealing the idea was.

He knew, though, that it was all a ruse to force the girl to surrender, and it had worked. Maybe this was better than seeing the Tark beheaded after all; that could always wait. He was all too happy to have his hands on some female flesh once again.

Griss enjoyed the way the Tark girl struggled as he held her. The ones who fought always excited him the most. He patted her firm hips just to experience the sensation of touching a woman once again. How long had it been since he had even seen a female? "Far too long," he thought as he experienced the ache once again. He had to stop thinking about how good she smelled and how her body moved as she struggled. He must force himself to stop thinking that way! A woman like this was not meant for the likes of him, but for the Jarl. Now if he could just talk sense into Algeirr, but he did not know how easy that would be, because it was obvious the outlaw wanted her for himself.

"Stop it, Algeirr. She is for the Jarl." Griss said with finality. "He will reward you, if you come to him bringing such a gift."

"Maybe I want to keep her for myself and my men." Algeirr looked at Griss as though he would hit him.

"This is not going too well," Griss thought.

"The Jarl likes fine, comely women," Griss said persuasively, "and will give you more for her if she is intact when she reaches him."

"All right then, let not a hair of her pretty little head be touched unless she makes trouble!"

Algeirr spat these words at Griss, hating the man with his very guts. But he stopped his hand that had crawled all by itself to his sword hilt, and took a deep breath. Algeirr was a sly old fox, and he knew that acting rashly out of anger was never a wise thing to do. If he would have to kill Griss, he would do it later, in cold blood.

As Griss and Algeirr argued, Caelen's mind raced frantically - what could she do? Her brother lay bound on the road, wounded and bleeding - were those horrible men just going to leave him there to die? She had to do something ... she pushed the raw, ugly memories of their groping hands into a dark place in her mind - that didn't happen to her ... not her, really ...

She looked anxiously at her brother, who was blinking hard, trying to clear his head. Suddenly Callon's wounded mare came into her view. A few of the men were trying to keep it still, but the animal, in its fear and pain, wanted to reach the only humans it knew. There had always been comfort and friendship with them - maybe if it could reach them, all these bad things would stop. They would make things better - they always did.

"All they care about is money," she thought, pushing the thoughts of other things they might want into the dark place along with the memories, and spoke up loud and clear, hoping no one noticed the tremor in her voice.

"Why don't you let my brother and me tend the wounded mare? If she recovers, she would be worth much to you."

Griss, trying to keep the role of top man present, assented gruffly. "Do it," he said.

She started to move towards the horse, but he grabbed her back and put his lips right up to her ear in an insulting, familiar way.

"No tricks, though, wench, or I won't be the only one making you pay! It's hard to keep my men back ... make it worth my effort."

Caelen fought back her disgust and fear and said meekly, "No tricks. Please, I just want to help her, she's in such pain..." Then remembering that these men didn't care at all about the animal, except for what they could use her or sell her for, she re-emphasized, "And she's worth a lot of money!"

Griss pushed her towards the horse. Caelen walked towards the injured animal and then stopped, deciding to take a risk. She boldly asked, "Would you untie my brother, please? Together we should be able to help the mare."

The men roared with laughter, but Caelen pressed on. "Look at her," she said, indicating the sleek, well-bred mare, trying to not think about her obvious distress and pain, "she's worth quite a lot of money alive, but worth nothing dead." Her gaze swept over the group, noting the youngest man - the archer - and his slightly sympathetic gaze. "Unless any of you are horse experts and can help me, that is," she added, and turned to Griss and Algeirr again with an air of a slightly exasperated expert that is trying to help the one that called her in even though he is hindering her.

Algeirr decided that Griss had taken enough of the commanding role, and motioned to one of his men. "Release him," he said, "the wench is right - the horse is a valuable one." Callon was jerked to his feet and his bonds cut off. Algeirr walked up to him and spat. Pulling out his blade, he jerked Caelen to his side and held the dagger to her throat, saying to Callon, "Know this, Tark - if you do anything I don't like, I'll give your woman a necklace to match yours!" Callon's eyes flamed with hate, but he was strong enough to not lose a chance out of anger, and he coldly nodded his assent.

As Callon walked over to his mare, she tossed her fine head and whinnied eagerly. At last, the one that smelled of green grass and fresh air; the one that brought her good things to eat; the one that helped her and made her feel good! She tried to walk towards him, but Callon held up his hand to her in the command to ground-tie, and she obediently halted and waited for him, trembling with distress.

He reached her head and caressed it gently, speaking soft words and rubbing the spot under her forelock that she liked so much. As he calmed her down, he tried to steal a glance at the young man holding the reins. Of all the bunch, he seemed the best bet to be most sympathetic to them. Callon decided to try to talk to the young man as much as possible and hopefully win him to their side - or at least win enough of him to where he might hesitate or even deliberately miss his next shot at them, if it came to that again. There were precious little other options Callon could see at the moment.

The mare lowered her head into Callon's caress and blew gently out of her nose. Her lovely coat was covered in sweat and flecked with foam, her nostrils were wide and red, but the sweet-smelling man was here now, and she visibly relaxed.

Callon turned to the young archer. "What's the arrowhead like? Can you show me?"

"Can't be pulled - gotta cut it out," Kvigr answered, trying to sound older than he was. Callon nodded and moved to examine the wound. As he moved, he kept one hand on the mare at all times, letting her know that he hadn't left her. He kept up the soft conversation with her, too. Kvigr was amazed at how the mare had calmed down by Callon's expert handling, and had a flash of anger and resentment. He could never afford a horse like this! The mare turned to look at him with her big, liquid eyes, and he forgot his anger. She nudged him gently and he awkwardly stroked her velvet-soft nose.

Callon was trying to decide the best angle to cut from when something caught his eye. He drew in a quick breath, and then slowly worked his hand down the mare's leg, squatting down next to her as he reached her fetlock. What he saw made him hang his head in despair - the delicate pastern bone had been broken in the horse's fall, and she was beyond anyone's help.

He leaned his head against her leg for a moment and tried to gather his strength and senses, still shaky from his own fall and subsequent beating. Slowly he stood up, again always keeping one hand on the mare, and turned to the young man.

"Her pastern - the bone just above the hoof - is broken," he said.

Kviggr looked at him. The grief in the Tark's eyes made him, for a moment, less alien. Kvigr liked animals - maybe Tarks weren't all bad, he thought.

"Can it - can you put a splint on or something?" he asked. The mare nudged him gently again, and Kvigr stroked her nose.

"No, I'm afraid not," said Callon. "There's no hope for a horse who has broken that bone. There's no way they can support their own weight while it's healing, and a horse can't survive on 3 legs - the other hooves will only get deformed and eventually infected. She must be put down."

Kvigr said nothing; he only looked at the mare's soft nose.

"I don't suppose you'd lend me your dagger to do the job," said Callon wryly.

"I'll do it - show me where," mumbled Kvigr.

"Let me tell my sister first, she'll want to help ease the mare," said Callon, revealing his relationship to the girl without even realizing he had done it.

He turned to call to his sister, and saw - nothing.

She was gone.


	7. Guests From the North

Camp at Morva Torch, October 6, 1347

Written by Angmar

Jarl Broggha had ordered a great feast be held in honor of the dignitaries from the North who were visiting the camp. Fires had been built in the clay earthen ovens the night before, and the Jarl's thralls had been occupied at their task of baking bread since before dawn. Kettles of stew were bubbling over fires; deer, squirrel, boar and ox were roasting on great spits throughout the camp. The smell of cooking meat blended with the smell of mead, ale, unwashed bodies and the dungpits. Though some of the men had already partaken of too much brew, the Jarl insisted upon order in his camp, and rowdies found that justice was administered all too quickly.

The Jarl and his guests had been in conference in his long house for hours while the whole camp celebrated their arrival. The building was heavily guarded at both the front and rear entrances, for the Jarl had given orders that he was not to be disturbed while discussions were in progress.

The Jarl was addressing a distinguished looking man, taller even than himself, who sat across the table from him. The table, the chairs, and almost every object in the room had once belonged to an unfortunate landholder of Rhudaur, who had since ceased having a need for such things. Though clad in traveling clothing, the visitors' dress was far richer than that of the Jarl's. The tall man was quietly listening to the Jarl's words.

"The King will soon have naught to fear, for when Rhudaur is in my hands, it is also in his." When Broggha spoke, he was fond of using wide, sweeping gestures of his hands to emphasize the importance of what he was saying, and his hands sometimes were more eloquent than his speech.

"The tributes that have been sent to the capital have been quite ample. The King was especially pleased with the quantity of plate and jewels, the fine horses, seed grains, and other tokens of your alliance. He values the continued friendship that is shared between himself and you. You have his promise of support should need arise."

"There will be a great deal more of goods, I promise him! The lords of this land are ripe for the plucking, with plenty to provide for the levies and to pay my men." Broggha was waving his right arm in an extravagant fashion to emphasize the promise of the future. "The king of Rhudaur is weak; he fears me and my growing power and influence. He has sent emissaries to me offering me whatever position I wish to accept in his kingdom."

"And have you accepted?" the other man asked quietly.

"Aye, I have." The Jarl's hands stopped beating the air and he took a drink from his goblet. Though he had long been in league with the Northern King, he would let his liege's underlings wait for the announcement of what position he would hold in the Rhuduarian kingdom.

"And what is this position?"

"Besides my own castle, which is quite large and rather grand, I might tell you, I have accepted the position as chief advisor on the Privy Council."

"A commendable appointment," the other man nodded.

"Nothing more than an attempt to purchase time and try to buy me off. The fool does not know that I want much more - his kingdom and his daughter's hand in marriage!"

"Jarl Broggha, you have grown to be quite a powerful man." The other man's eyes glittered as they narrowed. "When Rhudaur is in your grasp and the land is divided, the name of Broggha will be remembered forever."

Sounds of revelry in the camp had reached a fevered pitch with the sounds of loud shouting and cursing mingled with the screams and giggles of the female thralls. In the long house built of logs that served as Broggha's headquarters, eight of his lieutenants lay sprawled and drunken, their heads upon the table. Several had slid beneath the table and were snoring peacefully with the hounds.

Holding his dagger in his hand, Broggha speared a chunk of cold mutton on the tip and plopped the meat into his mouth. His hunger still unabated, he reached a mighty hand into a platter of cold roast beef and began tearing off chunks. Washing it all down with a swallow of ale, he wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand and loudly belched twice.

Broggha smiled as he thought of the generous promises of Carn Dum. There would be aid should he need it - but Broggha was more than certain that his own men could carry his plans off quite well. The important guarantee concerned the orcs. Those brutes would increase their harassment on the holds of those accursed Dunedain nobles who were loyal to King Tarnendur but would stay clear of Broggha's people.

Broggha thought ahead for a few days hence when he and a great contingent of his men would march in triumphal procession through the streets of Cameth Brin. There would be many other of his men who would be cheering along his victory route. Their purpose would be both to add their voices to the exultant crowds and to make certain that no foolish Dunedain would get the idea to try to assassinate Broggha.

People were always awed with parades and show, but Broggha cared little of the affectations of people. His interests lay in the impression that his great force would make upon the king and his nobles. Broggha was now a force with which to be reckoned.

The hour was growing late and he called to the thralls to put more wood in the brazier. Broggha took another draught from his tankard, belched and stood to his towering height beside his chair. Gathering his fur robe around his shoulders, he shouted to Aewen and Maleneth, "Filthy Tark slatterns! The night will be cold! Come and warm my bed!"

Maleneth was able to hide the surge of resentment in her eyes, but Aewen, who was younger, could not conceal her indignity.

"Come here, wench," Broggha bellowed as he threw her across his shoulder and carried her off to the raised platform and his furs.

October 6, 1347 - a few leagues north of Broggha's Camp

Written by Valandil

Eryndil sat on the fallen tree, rubbing his chin reflectively at this latest bit of news.

His last orders had been to shadow Broggha's advance as far as Penmorva, reporting anything out of the ordinary, and then to seek what winter quarters suited them.

Keeping an eye on Broggha's enormous company had been an easy task. Even when his scouts started snooping around close by, it was no trouble to slip away. Easy enough to get lost in THESE hills. And these particular hills... he had known them from boyhood. "Eryndil" he had been named at birth, and as the 3rd son of a Thane, he had lived up to being a "forest-friend" from his earliest days - while his older brothers had more serious duties of learning to run their father's estate. And now... at 40, after 15 years in the King's service, men called him "Taurenol" - "wood-wise" for few could equal him in the wilds.

It had been easy enough to continue the chase a little past Penmorva. He wondered why Broggha had set up his camp - and how long he would stay - and why he didn't just march on down to Cameth Brin now - before winter began to set in.

He looked at the faces of his patrol - the 12 men under his command - all first-termers. Nine were from families of Householders - seven from his father's own lands. All of these nine were pretty good woodsmen. The three "city-boys" were learning well enough. Another year or two and they could hold their own, perhaps. Four of his men - three of those from the country, including the two brothers - were sons of soldiers. Eryndil's own father had done little soldiering himself - but Eryndil felt like he was making up for it.

This latest news though... first the young couple headed toward Morva - where that scraggly bunch of probable Arthedain deserters was. And now, the riders coming in from the north - headed in the direction of Broggha's camp. Who were THEY? And did they intend to ride to Broggha, or were they seeking Cameth Brin, unaware of the great camp of men in their path?

The wind whipped up, and he thought of winter once more. This close to his father's estate... that might be a good place to settle in for winter this year. He thought of his younger sister, whom he hadn't seen in 5 years now. And his father, mother... everyone else! Most of the other men could spend the Yule with their own families, and they could always keep 3 or 4 out afield, yet within a winter day's hike of reach.

It would sure beat another winter in the Ettenmoors, by Eru!

But before they made good on any winter plans, Eryndil decided to check into these latest developments.

"Let's go!" he said to his men, standing and turning toward where the new reports had come from, keeping to the shadows of wood and stone.


	8. Tarks Are Good for Something

On the road near Morva Torch, afternoon of October 6, 1347.  
Written by Gordis, Angmar, and Valandil 

Algeirr calmed his men, who were muttering darkly, angry and disappointed, and sent them to tend to the horse. They obeyed reluctantly, as they knew that no one of them could best their leader in fight. But they were far from content, and still shot angry glances at Algeirr and Griss and lustful ones at the girl.

While the young tark, aided by Kvigr, was busy with the wounded mare, three other mercenaries with drawn swords stood guard around them. Griss and Algeirr were holding the girl's arms, Algeirr's knife firmly held at her milk-white throat.

The distraction left Algeirr time to think and observe the others. He noticed that Heggr, Griss's companion, was as disappointed as his own men, if not more. He stood nearby, sucking his bad teeth, his dark hungry eyes riveted to the wench, as a cat watches a fat mouse.

Even Griss himself looked distracted: he was holding the left arm of the girl and was using his right hand to stroke her buttocks, when he thought nobody was looking. When the girl squirmed and kicked Griss's knee with her foot, cursing under her breath, Algeirr made his decision.

He grinned good-naturedly at Griss and received an answering smile: the man seemed relieved that Algeirr's anger had passed.

"I must have a word with you, Griss," Algeirr whispered conspiratorially. "Bind the wench's hands, so we can talk"

Griss drew the girl's hands behind her back, and Algeirr passed him a piece of rope to bind them together. When the girl started to struggle, Algeirr put some pressure on the knife at her throat, drawing a trickle of blood. Then he took out of his pocket a large dirty piece of cloth, which normally served as a kerchief. But this time Algeirr used it to gag the girl. Struggling frantically now, she tried to avoid the dirty cloth that was being pushed in her mouth. But Griss held her firmly from behind, pressing her body to his with both arms.

When the girl opened her mouth to scream, the gag finally found its way into her mouth, and the only sound that came out was a low moan. This time, it was Griss's turn to take out his kerchief which they tied firmly over the girl's jaws, securing the gag in place. The two outlaws apprised their handiwork, smiling with satisfaction.

Algeirr looked back at the group near the mare. The three outlaws were still gawking at the operation and effectively screened the scene from the Tark. Heggr was the only one watching him and Griss, and his shrewd grim gaze made it quite clear that he wished to be a party in whatever was going to be discussed. Algeirr nodded towards the side of the road and they made their way through the low shrubs, pushing the struggling girl between them.

"Let us bind her to a tree," Algeirr said to Griss and Heggr, once they were safely out of earshot from the road. Caelen was soon bound to a pine-tree, ropes securing her wrists and her still bleeding neck. Algeirr sat on the thick carpet of pine-needles and grinned at Broggha's men.

"I have a proposal, gentlemen," he said amiably. "Let us have fun with the tark wench now and kill them both afterwards."

Seeing that Griss was about to protest, Algeirr stopped him, saying, "Broggha needs not be told of this, I gather he has wenches enough. Of course, all the other lads should be let to have their part of the fun, that will help them keep their mouths shut."

"What say you to that?"

As Griss listened to Algeirr's words, Heggr kept telling him with sharp glances that he liked Algeirr's plan to use the woman now and after the sporting was concluded, kill the both of them.

"Why shouldn't we have a little fun?" Griss told himself. Broggha always had the best of everything - the best women, the best ale and wine, the best food, the best horse. All men like Griss and Heggr could do was cast lustful looks at women like Aewen and Maleneth and hope their leader didn't notice. When Griss had been holding the girl, he couldn't keep his hands off her, and now he wanted to do a lot more than stroke her rump with his hand. Just looking at the girl made him ache. He caught her eye and his bold expression said, "I hope I am first!"

Broggha didn't even know this girl existed. This would be simple; Griss was the head of Broggha's spies. Oh, Broggha thought up the missions sometimes, but it was Griss' sharp mind which kept the records of the activities of every last one of his spies. They would bury the girl and her brother deep so that not even the scavengers could dig them up, and no one would ever find their bodies.

Algeirr was speaking to him now, "What say you to that?"

Griss had already decided. "Let's all take a tumble with her and kill her and her brother. Now who is going to be first?" Griss eyed Algeirr. There was no point in getting the man any more angry than he already had been, but it had been a long, long time since Griss had had a woman!

---

There was a loud THWACK on the tree where the girl was tied. The men looked sharply toward the sound, and saw a steel arrow, sunk deep into the tree, about an arm's length over the girl's head.

They wavered for just a moment - instincts telling them to flee, but their better sense telling them to hold still. Then a voice called out from the forest, "HOLD! In the name of the King!"

Eryndil strode forth, drawn sword before him, five men behind him with spears extended.

"Now... MOVE!" he commanded, "Out onto the road."

One of them had a better idea and dove for cover. "Fool," thought Eryndil, just as an arrow struck the man's thigh. Then he signaled for two of the fellow's comrades to help him out into the road.

Eryndil paused before the young woman at the tree as his men passed him, leading the others now right onto the road. He watched as the other two young ones who had been apart were brought forth by his three other spearmen. That left him four archers in the woods - and two of them were Narwaith and Nimloss - who wouldn't miss their mark with a clear shot on the road.

He turned then to the girl. Some would have fainted at an arrow strike like that, but her eyes looked at him levelly - without fear, with no expression at all.

"My sword is a bit clumsy for this, but I dare not set it aside," he told her, and then walking around the tree, reached his left hand to support her shoulder as with his great sword he cut the ropes binding her to the tree and tying her hands. Those hands freed, she quickly reached up and pulled down the kerchief holding the gag in her mouth and began to cough and spat as she rubbed her wrists and throat.

"Now that one," Eryndil said, indicating Callon, "Is he your husband?" He had to be sure the man hadn't brought her here to them, though he doubted it by the matching bloody marks on their necks.

Her eyes opened wide as she turned her head sharply toward him. "He... cough, cough, ... is my..." but then she just turned and ran toward the young man in the road. Eryndil's men let her pass, and she threw her arms about him and the two embraced.

Eryndil signaled for the two to be led out of the circle of spears, then turned his attention to his own captives. From the forest he had seen that they now numbered seven instead of five - and that the two additions were likely from Broggha's camp. This complicated things, so it was best not to acknowledge it. And he had given the brothers a strict command, though Eru knows they have a score to settle - and Eryndil wasn't sure if he could keep his own bowstring in check, were he in their places.

"So... deserters from Malvegil's Army? He hangs such, doesn't he? Now... lay your weapons aside - in a pile - here!"

The men complied, wordlessly, but with venom in their eyes. Eryndil then had them lie face-down on the road, with two ranger between each. He commanded his men, "If one moves, stick 'im!" as they began to search them in turn, drawing out not a few stray daggers and other things. Then he addressed them further.

"You have fallen into the hands of Taurenol, Servant to King Tarnendur of Rhudaur - and I do not do the office of Malvegil of Arthedain. If you heed me, you will survive our first meeting, otherwise..."

"Deserters do no one any good. But kidnappers, thieves, murderers... and other such," he said, looking back at the girl, "these break the laws of our land. As it is, my timely intervention has spared you men the disgrace of breaking our good King's Laws, and falling into his disfavor - for this you can be thankful. If I had come later, I would have no choice but to slay you all."

Oh - double fool! Just at that moment, Gwaerod - the slowest-learning of his men - was searching the last of the captives when the man swung about with a dagger. Gwaerod warded off the blow at the price of a sliced forearm. This just wouldn't do, thought Eryndil, as he rushed forward with his sword. But as Eryndil drew close enough to strike, and Gwaerod tried to rally himself and spear the man, two arrows met their marks, one in the chest and one in the throat, and the man slumped back and lay still. Eryndil smiled grimly to himself. That one in the throat came from where Narwaith was posted - 'he might be better than me now' thought Eryndil. He noted that the man was one of the apparent deserters - not one of Broggha's men. That at least was good.

The rest of the men seemed more cooperative from then on. Eryndil noted that the sun would be setting soon. While Lothrond tended to Gwaerod, Norumar and Ceruvar gathered up the weapons of the brigands. "Now," said Eryndil, "give each one its own special hiding place in the woods yonder," indicating the forest on the south side of the road. "Maybe these men can find them in the morning." But if Norumar and Ceruvar did their jobs right, it would take all the next day.

To reach Broggha's camp - a likely destination - one would take the road east. Eryndil and his men had come from the north, and he intended to depart to the northwest. He called down Hithirion and Griblung from the woods, keeping his two best archers in hiding. Then he commanded his captives to rise. "Now... walk!" he said, pointing westward. "You two," indicating the ones who seemed to be leaders, "help your wounded comrade." He instructed six of his men to walk behind them, to the next bend in the road, as far as they could still be seen. Then his men were to stop and watch their captives go at least another two furlongs beyond. By then the sun would be setting and it would be almost dark. As they walked away, he looked to where his last two archers were hiding and motioned for them to follow.

Now was just the wrap-up. The young couple explained about their wounded horse, so he gave them the weapon they asked for. The pair walked the animal just inside the woods and the deed was done. Then the slain man was dragged to the edge of the road and covered with a blanket, weighed down by stones, left there for his own comrades to bury. The horses belonging to the bandits were hobbled to keep them from running far - Eryndil checked the knots to make sure they couldn't be untied, so that the men would have to find sharpened steel to cut the ropes before the horses could be ridden.

They made ready to depart. Eryndil asked that his wounded man could ride one horse while the young couple doubled-up on the other - explaining that they would just walk, and over rough terrain. He asked in part so that the pair wouldn't decide to flee. It was turning dusk when his six men returned from their walk. Ceruvar and Norumar had finished their work, so they all departed. Eryndil and nine of his men walked - one of whom led the horse that carried Gwaerod (who had never sat on a horse before) - and Callon and Caelen on another horse in their midst.

Narwaith and Nimloss joined them about half a furlong into the woods. On they marched - due north at first, after Eryndil had extracted an oath from them that they hadn't harmed Broggha's men.

It would be useless to try to gather more information on the riders seen headed toward Broggha's camp, Eryndil sighed. Now... despite all this other precautions, he still only needed to make sure that they were not followed.


	9. Troubles in the Royal Family

Cameth Brin, October 6, 1347. Written by Elfhild 

The trees in the castle bailey were beginning to show signs of autumn, the green leaves tinted with a touch of yellow. The fields beneath the steep cliff of Cameth Brin had been harvested and were now lying fallow for the winter rest. The hay mows in the barn were filled with the ripe riches of the hayfields, and even now gave off a lingering sweetness of August's last mowing.

Tarniel, King Tarnendur's youngest daughter, a girl of fourteen, sat upon the cushioned window seat, looking out through the open window at the scene outside. A tall, willowy girl, her long, rich brunette tresses were bound up in a fat mass of plaits held captive within a net of finely woven thread. She possessed all the traits of her race, that of the Dunedain, the usual dark hair and fair skin, and gray eyes like the sea from which the elves set sail at the ports of Lindon. Her rosy cheeks were not marked with a single freckle brought about by the brilliant rays of Lady Arien, for, as did most noblewomen, she spent most of her days within castle walls or beneath the shade trees in the lovely palace gardens.

And that was just what Tarniel was doing now, sitting in her chamber. A book lay forgotten in her lap; her thoughts were elsewhere, upon the dances which would be held in winter, the court balls in the castle's majestic ballroom... Lords and ladies would come from all around to her father's court, and there would be mirth and cheer, and the logs would burn brightly in the great fireplace... there would be long feasting tables covered with food aplenty, and subtleties of gelatin wrought in the shapes of great animals or castles or scenes from history. Young men, suitors for the king's daughter, would all be vying for the chance to dance with her... she blushed when she thought of them, a broad smile curling out over her lips.

Then her thoughts darkened, for she thought of her half-sister Gimilbeth, a woman almost ninety years her senior. Gimilbeth had little love for Tarniel, her mother or her two brothers. It was commonly believed that she was a witch, and Tarniel tried to avoid her as much as possible. Thoughts of her could ruin those of any pleasant social gathering.

* * *

Cameth Brin, morning of October 6, 1347. Written by Gordis

Gimilbeth, the eldest daughter of Tarnendur and his late first wife Inzilbeth, sat at her dressing table looking in the mirror with unseeing eyes. She has just returned from the Tanoth Brin village, her elaborate blue headdress still on her head and her pack of medicinal herbs clutched tightly in her hands.

Yozaneth, the little rosy-cheeked, plump Yozaneth was dead at last. Her little northern handmaid, her adoring and selfless companion, her only friend... Yes, they had been friends an age ago in sunny Gondor, where the wind smelled of the Sea and flowers, where peaches grew in lush gardens, where precious stones were pebbles for children to play with. The land where Gimilbeth was ready to become Queen...

She remembered the beaming Yozaneth at the balcony of their palace in Osgiliath, all flushed and happy, telling her:

"Oh Prince Valacar is in love with you already, t'was plain to see, m'lady! And he is to become King one day, d'you know?"

She knew, of course. Valacar son of Minalcar, the Regent of the realm, was the childless King Narmacil's grand-nephew and Heir to the Gondor throne after his father. Seeing the growing beauty of Tarnendur's noble daughter, Minalcar proposed the eventual betrothal of Gimilbeth with his young son Valacar. It was too early to speak of marriage, of course, even of the regular betrothal, as Gimilbeth had only seen ten summers by this time.

Still, that very day, Valacar was introduced to Gimilbeth. He kissed her hand tenderly and spoke in mock seriousness.

"I see you are growing to be a wondrous beauty, my young Lady. No man could remain indifferent in your presence."

And then, the same year, Minalcar sent his son away, to the far land of Rhovanion, to establish good relations with the northern barbarians. Valacar succeeded in that, apparently, as he returned to Gondor with a barbaric wife and a new-born bastard.

That day Gimilbeth cried for the first time in her life, little Yozaneth wailing at her feet. But it was not the last time...

Yozaneth was one of the children of Tarnendur's servant, Yozadan, half-Hillmen himself and married to a Hillmen girl. Gimilbeth knew how short the life span of Hillmen was supposed to be, but still she was shocked when Yozaneth was married and nursing a plump child before Gimilbeth herself was done with playing with her dolls. She felt abandoned and betrayed, and sent Yozaneth away. Gimilbeth found new handmaidens, dark-haired Gondorian girls, but no one of them could take the place Yozaneth had held at her side and in her heart.

Later, Yozaneth was around, but not too close, growing older and older. For the last twenty years, since they came to the cold, savage land of Rhudaur, Gimilbeth saw her old handmaiden rarely. Yozaneth lived quietly in Tanoth Brin, surrounded by her numerous children and grandchildren, and never came up to the Castle. Until the last night, when a ruddy, sandy-haired peasant, one of Yozaneth's great-grandchildren, begged the Lady Gimilbeth to attend her old friend at her deathbed. It was not a plea anyone could refuse, so Gimilbeth took her bag of medicine, and, surrounded by an escort of armed Dunedain guards, rode down the winding road to Tanoth Brin.

The room in the little cottage below the hill was crowded. Old gray-haired men and women wept, the younger ones sniffed, and the little great-grandchildren watched the bed with frightened solemn eyes. On the bed, covered by fur blankets, lay a small heap of bones, held together by translucent, wrinkled skin. Only the kind blue eyes were recognizable and still able to recognize. Yozaneth smiled at her, showing stumps of rotten teeth, and held out a bony hand. She was too weak to say anything and died within the hour.

And Yozaneth was one year younger than she.

Gimilbeth shook her head and looked into the mirror worriedly. The mirror reflected the face of a young maiden, with flawless creamy skin and dark-blue, almost black, secretive eyes under the long dark lashes. So far, the secret knowledge she inherited from her Umbarian grandmother had worked. And she had used only simple spells, herbal creams and lotions. And dancing alone on the nights of the Equinoxes and summer and winter Solstices, drawing power from the Sun. But her grandmother leagued her more... Gimilbeth also had a little black book, which her dying mother begged her to burn. She didn't burn it, but never dared to read beyond the first page.

Rising wearily, Gimilbeth went to the large chest by the wall, and, opening the secret locker in the lid, took out the book. It smelled faintly of fungus. The small book looked ancient beyond count, the leather cover set with precious stones moldy and fragile. Mouth pressed into a thin line, Gimilbeth returned to her chair and opened the first page.

"The Ancient Darkness is stronger than the Light. And out of it the world was made. For Darkness alone is worshipful, and the Lord thereof may yet make other worlds to be gifts to those that serve him, so that the increase of their power shall find no end"  
"It is He whose Name is not now spoken; for the Valar have deceived you concerning Him, putting forward the name of Eru, a phantom devised in the folly of their hearts, seeking to enchain Men in servitude to themselves. For they are the oracle of this Eru, which speaks only what they will. But He that is their Master shall yet prevail, and He will deliver you from this phantom; and His name is Melkor, Lord of All, Giver of Freedom, and He shall make you stronger than they."

* * *

Cameth Brin, late morning of October 6, 1347. Written by Gordis and Elfhild.

Tarnendur, King of Rhudaur, his old wrinkled face contorted in a scowl, walked out of the Council chamber. Yet again he had to make concessions: his counselors have been most persuasive and made him accept the unacceptable, to accord Broggha the Rebel, Broggha the Murderer a castle to rule and a place of Chief advisor on his own Privy Council! At this thought the King's fingers curled into a fist. He shook his long mane of white hair and headed out for a gulp of fresh air. He descended to the first level of the tower and passed through the great central hall. This was the public hall, where feasts and receptions were held, petitions were heard, and where many of the courtiers slept at night, either in the Hall itself, or in smaller chambers opening into it.

In the court, the sun was shining, weak and watery, giving little warmth. Cold autumn breezes swept the yard. Near the main gate, he saw his sons with several other boys of their age, preparing to go to the Old Fort for their archery lesson. Seeing the King, the young men approached and bowed, waiting for the King to address them.

Daurendil, the King's heir, a young man of twenty summers, dark-haired and keen-eyed, took a lot after his father. He stood proudly, smiling at the King, his eyes level with his father's. He was clad in an elegant green tunic and a copper-colored cape, a long bow behind his back.

Amantir, of smaller stature, with wavy raven hair, delicate features and soft feminine mouth was a copy of his mother, gentle and loving Queen Eilinel. He was the first to notice the King's concealed distress and looked back at his father inquiringly.

"Greetings, my sons," said the King. "I hope you are fine. I see you are ready for the archery practice. Captain Merendil is quite pleased with your progress, I heard."

The young men bowed again, flushing at the King's approval, so rare these days.

"I won't detain you longer, my sons," the King continued. "Only tell me, have you seen your sister Tarniel today?"

"Yes Father," replied Daurendil. "She is in her rooms reading or dreaming as usual."

The Prince had little interest for his sister. What a shame to be born a girl, to be confined to your rooms and miss almost all the excitement there is in life!

The King nodded and turned to the Palace, a newly built luxurious building surrounded by a small garden. He saw Tarniel sitting at the window and beckoned to her. Tarniel soon appeared at the door and joined the King.

"Come, daughter," he said, looking at her lovingly. "Walk with me in the garden for a while."

They walked for some time in silence.

"I am afraid the news is not good," he said after a while. "Our life is about to change. I was forced to make some concessions to the Hillmen rebels. Soon it will be unsafe to walk alone in the garden or even to remain in your room unattended. Some wicked people will be around here."

Alarmed, Tarniel looked to her father's face.

"Oh, that is horrible, Father! Are these Hillmen here to stay? Will every day be like this?"

Her gaze left his face and she looked about the garden, thinking of all the places which were so wonderful for moments of quiet solace. Would she have to sacrifice her freedom to be alone and dream for fear of marauding Hillmen everywhere?

"I have to be attended even in my room?!" she gasped in disbelief.

Tarnendur turned slowly and looked at his daughter. So young and innocent she was, sheltered and pampered by her loving parents, unprepared to meet the cruel realities of life. It was yet another of his many mistakes...

Tarnendur was long reluctant to re-marry, remaining faithful to the one he held so dear and mourned for so long. But, to his own surprise, he found peace and happiness with his loving, gentle wife Eilinel, and a new hope when, in due time, she presented him with two strong sons and a lovely daughter. Tarniel was by far his favorite of the three, or, at least, it seemed so to casual observers. If he were able to be stern and demanding with his sons, deeming it the only way to raise them properly, every time he looked at his daughter, his old heart melted, and she invariably got everything she wanted and more.

Perhaps, now it was time to change that. Tarnendur scowled from cheer frustration and pain, and replied in a harsh strangled voice.

"Yes, Tarniel. Even in your room, even while you sleep. I will ask the Queen to choose a trustworthy Dunedain woman, skilled with weapons, to be your guardian day and night. I would be loath to order armed men to stay in your room. But once you are outside, an escort of four guards is in order. They will follow you everywhere. Now, go and find Princess Odaragariel. I trust you to transmit my orders to her. She is an orphan, and I am her guardian, so the same precautions will be made for her safety."

With that, Tarnendur turned on his heels, and strode to the Palace. He had a most unpleasant task at hand - to tell Gimilbeth of the Council's decision.


	10. The Witch and the King

Cameth-Brin, late morning of October 6, 1347. Written by Gordis and Angmar.

To those who knew Osgiliath, or Minas Tirith, and to people who saw what little remaining splendor the conquered Umbar had to offer, the Palace of Cameth Brin must have seemed a primitive place indeed. But to rustic Rhudaurians, it appeared splendid beyond imagination. The Palace was built only twenty-three years previously, by Gimilbeth's orders, when she came to settle in Cameth Brin. Tarnendur himself, and later his Queen, thought that the old Tower, which harbored the Royal family for centuries, was good enough, but Gimilbeth proved adamant: she lacked the commodities she was used to from early childhood, so the Palace was built.

Now, Gimilbeth occupied the most sheltered and sunny part of it, her windows looking south. She also had a private garden with exotic flowers and plants brought all the way from Gondor, regardless of the exorbitant expenses this arrangement entailed. Three gardeners were assigned to her garden: she was never one to look after the plants herself.

Passing through the Main Hall, Tarnendur turned left to the doors to Gimilbeth's rooms. He was ushered in by Gimilbeth's two pages, who were handsome young men, taken from the best families Rhudaur had to offer. The boys were dressed in bright silks and velvets, their hair combed and perfumed, and their manners fit for the lofty Gondor court. They took the King to a richly decorated sitting room and went to fetch the Lady.

Tarnendur looked around the room: he could have believed himself in Osgiliath again. Dried petals of exotic flowers, contained in exquisite porcelain vases, filled the air with fragrance. The rays of the sun, passing through the diamond-shaped window panes, played on the brightly colored Khandian carpet on the floor.

The King sighed - he himself missed the Southern capital. Youngest son of Tarenion, Heir of Rhudaur, he had spent most of his life in Gondor, never hoping to become King. He served Minalcar, the regent of Gondor, and fought against the Northmen and Easterlings in the Rhovanion army of Gondor. Those were good times - careless and happy, at least as long as Inzilbeth his first wife lived. But then, the news of the slaughter of his brother King Ermegil and his family reached him in 1306. He declared himself King of Rhudaur by right of succession, and came North, to gather forces to reclaim his Kingdom. With the help of Arthedain, Tarnendur finally regained the Kingdom of Rhudaur, but found little peace there. Trouble, always trouble...

Tarnendur sighed again, examining a tiny, almost transparent porcelain vase. Gimilbeth had managed to bring many of the treasures from the southern capital, but she imported the Southern customs as well, much to Tarnendur's chagrin. Many a young man spent sleepless nights beneath Gimilbeth's windows singing lays, accompanied by a harp, or a flute, as was the custom in the South. Many wore Gimilbeth's colors on their sleeves, during the tournaments held in the castle twice a year, proclaiming her openly the fairest lady in the land. There was often dancing and singing in Gimilbeth's rooms all through the night. The folk in the North looked askance at such practices, and called them "debauchery", but Gimilbeth cared little. Several generations of young men sought her attentions, but few got more than a smile and a nod, and nobody got more than a furtive kiss.

Tarnendur thought again of his previous plans to make Gimilbeth the first Ruling Queen of Rhudaur after his death. Gimilbeth would have made a great queen. Has she resigned, when he married, as she had claimed, or did she still feel slighted? With Gimilbeth it was hard to tell: nobody he knew could hide their feelings better.

Tarnendur sighed and shook his head. To be a ruler, one must have some backing, and what backing could Gimilbeth have had? The people disliked her and called her a foreigner and sometimes even a witch. The nobles looked askance at her southern customs. King Malvegil of Arthedain, once Tarnendur was dead with no male heirs, would have undoubtedly laid claim to Rhudaur, as he did to Cardolan, in the similar situation. So, Tarnendur made a right choice when he married Eilinel and started a new family. The only possible choice to make his kingdom last.

Yet, his marriage meant the loss of Arthedain's support, and that proved his undoing...

So was it the right choice?

A slight noise behind and the fragrance of peach in his nostrils, which always accompanied Gimilbeth, made Tarnendur turn, and he felt a lump in his throat, as always, when he looked at his eldest daughter. Gimilbeth, who just drifted into the room and curtsied, was a living image of her mother, his first beloved wife Inzilbeth, with the same dark silvery hair and deep blue eyes, perfect creamy skin, tiny waist and generous breasts and hips.

But Tarnendur knew that, unlike Inzilbeth, beneath this superficial gentleness and meekness Gimilbeth had a core of steel. In character, she resembled her grandmother, the dreaded lady Serinde, who was the public opinion of Umbar, and many a girl's reputation had been ruined at the slightest raising of the lady's delicate dark brows. Tarnendur remembered how Serinde used to look right through her clumsy Northern son-in-law, as if he wasn't there, never good enough for her notion. Feeling the same uncalled-for awkwardness, the King approached his daughter.

"Greetings, Gimilbeth, my darling," said the King, smiling lamely. "I have news for you. There was a Council this morning..."

"A Council?" Gimilbeth frowned slightly, she always kept frowns to a minimum, lest they cause permanent wrinkles on her flawless forehead. "Why was it held without me?"

Gimilbeth was the only lady on the King's private council, remaining there from the times when she was considered Heiress to the throne. All the council members had grown to fear her calm, sarcastic observations and the sharpness of her mind, in their opinion, quite unbecoming for a lady.

Tarnendur shuffled his feet uneasily and replied "There was an urgent matter to discuss. Messengers came with Broggha's demands. And you were away at Tanoth Brin, visiting Yozaneth, I heard. How is she?"

"She is dead," replied Gimilbeth flatly, and waved aside the sympathetic words that were at the King's lips. "Please, be seated, Father."

Moving gracefully, Gimilbeth poured some wine in two silver goblets and offered one to the King. Tarnendur reached absently to take some dried Gondorian dates from a platter with sweetmeats. Gimilbeth sat in a chair on the other side of a low table, sipping her wine slowly and watching him with dark piercing eyes.

"Now, my Lord, could you, please, tell me what the Council decided?"

Tarnendur downed his wine in one swallow and watched Gimilbeth pour him more. The conversation was every bit as difficult as he thought it would be. Finally he blurted out:

"Broggha is too strong for us, strong enough to attack this castle. We had to meet Broggha's demands to pacify him, so he got a castle in Pennmorva to rule and a place on my private Council."

Gimilbeth put the bottle back on the table, her hand shaking slightly. Even her composure slipped sometimes, Tarnendur noted. She didn't raise her voice, though.

"A barbarian on our private council? Broggha here, in Cameth Brin? You are afraid of him, so you open the Castle gates for him? Were you...?" Gimilbeth didn't utter "mad" but the King understood what she was about to say well enough.

"I may regret it, but I have given my word. It is too late, Gimilbeth. It was the only way," Tarnendur replied gravely.

"There must be other ways!" exclaimed Gimilbeth. She held her hands folded demurely in front of her, and appeared calm enough, only fire in her eyes bore witness to her feelings.

"Isn't it time to ask King Romendacil for help, Father? He was a good friend of yours."

Tarnendur shook his head. "No help will come from Gondor. The King has trouble enough with Valacar's stupid marriage to a barbarian princess. All the Southern provinces refuse to accept their son Eldacar as heir. Gondor is in for serious calamities, it is clear."

"What about Arthedain, my Lord?"

"King Malvegil seems much less willing to grant his aid, once he understood that our Kingdom was slipping out of his hands. He wanted to inherit the Crown after my death, but I have got sons now. If only..."

He stopped and sighed, noticing that Gimilbeth's lips were pressed together in a thin line.

Both remembered the attempt to marry Gimilbeth to the heir of Arthedain, Celebrindol, Malvegil's eldest son, back in 1307. Malvegil was enthusiastic at the match, which gave him a real opportunity to reunite Arnor. Gimilbeth was relishing the prospect to become queen of a vast prosperous kingdom. All seemed so well... but for one thing: Celebrindol himself suddenly declared he was in love with another lady. The fool adamantly refused to marry according to his father's wishes.

"Cardolan, then?"

"The old King Dirion had little support himself caring only for his own land and building fortifications along the Great Road and to the South, as far as Tharbad. Since he died, there is no King and likely the land will go to Malvegil."

Tarnendur made his way to the window and looked out onto the sunlit garden.

"Nobody will help us. I know how you hate Barbarians, but we have to deal with Broggha. It is the only way!" he repeated.

There was a long silence. Then Gimilbeth spoke, her voice low and emotionless.

"When a dog barks at you, will you reason with it? Will you try to bribe it with bones? Nay, you will appeal to its master to put his dog on a leash."

"What do you mean?" Tarnendur asked, turning sharply from the window to look suspiciously at his daughter.

But Gimilbeth would not be deterred. She added, her dark eyes glittering coldly.

"Broggha is nothing but a hound. His Master sits in Carn-Dum. The King of Angmar is the only one we should treat with - over Broggha's head."

At his daughter's words, an incredulous look crossed over Tarnendur's face and he coughed nervously. How brilliantly insightful his daughter had always been, perceiving quickly the nature of things. But this time she was wrong in her assumption! Though he had heard the same rumors about Broggha, he would not - he could not - accept them! Broggha was merely a powerful chieftain of the Hillmen and was certainly not in league with that person in Carn Dum!

Yes, it would be considered weakness on his part to name the chieftain to the council and further pacify him with the castle to rule at Pennmorva. The kingdom must be saved, and what other choice had there been? Gimilbeth could see through all of his explanations, though. He would try reasoning upon her.

"My dear daughter," he looked into those cold eyes of her and inwardly flinched, "I am amazed that you would say such words. For me to drum up the excuse to order Broggha's death would incite his people and bring open and bloody war across the whole land. If I would arrange his assassination, the outcome would be the same. His people would immediately know that I was the instigator. Broggha cannot be touched! He has pledged to me that all his people are appeased and satisfied that now one of their own has been suitably honored. Can you not understand, my daughter, that conciliation is the only road to peace?"

Her cold eyes tried him in the balances and found him lacking.

"Father, perhaps you do not understand. Broggha is nothing but a pawn of Angmar. Deal with the lord of that land directly and eliminate this barbarian."

"I understand all too well, daughter. What you are asking me to do is make Rhudaur a tributary fiefdom under this man about whom no one knows anything. Never will I do that! Never will I see Rhudaur fall into the hands of a foreigner!"

"And why, Father, might I ask, why you will not deal with him?"

"Besides the fact that no one even knows his name, I have been given other strange reports about this man."

"Probably nothing more than I have heard, Father," Gimilbeth said coolly. "Perhaps you would care to elaborate."

"He is said to be a sorcerer... and though I do not credit this, some say he is an instrument of the Enemy!" Tarnendur's voice shook at these words. He wondered why Gimilbeth did not seem inordinately distressed at that news.

Gimilbeth smiled, nonplused. "And I am said to be a witch, by our own people, Father. Haven't you heard that?"

Tarnendur lowered his eyes, embarrassed. "People regard you as a foreigner, Gimilbeth, and foreigners are not to be trusted. I told you many times to drop your southern ways and adopt the ways of your people."

"Let us not start this argument again, Father," Gimilbeth pleaded. "I am not complaining, I only wish to point out that it is fairly easy to gain a reputation of a witch. This King of Angmar might also be a foreigner in his land, and I think it is the simple truth, given the accounts I heard of him."

"What accounts?" the King asked suspiciously.

"Why, nothing untoward, really." Gimilbeth smiled. "All the accounts agree that he is surprisingly tall. Some say he has black hair. That makes him either a Numenorean, or a man of the Three Houses, but no Hillman, surely. By all accounts, he has ruled Angmar for about 70 years already, but I haven't heard about him growing old. Our spies reported rumors of numerous "Tarks" in his service. So he is either a Dunadan himself, or a Numenorean from the South."

"A BLACK Numenorean, you want to say!" Tarnendur hissed. "I must tell you, it is even worse than a renegade Dunadan, worse than a Hillman!"

Gimilbeth shrugged her shoulders. "They are Numenoreans still, cultured people, and could be reasoned with, no matter what god they worship."

"I won't have anything to do with the bloody Morgoth-worshippers!" Tarnendur yelled, smashing his goblet on the table. "You are crazy even to suggest that!"

Without another word, the King stormed out of the room. Gimilbeth bit her lip. She had lost again. 


	11. The Princesses and Their Guardians

Cameth Brin, late morning of October 6, 1347. Written by Elfhild, Serenoli, Rian and Earniel. 

Tarniel stood in the garden, watching the form of her father hastily retreat into the distance. How could this be happening? How long would this situation last? It did not sound like these Hillmen were just visiting for a few days. It certainly sounded like they were moving into the palace. But how could that be? Had her father ...sold... the palace to them... the kingdom? No, that was not possible! He would never do such a thing! But just what kind of concessions HAD he made to these Hillmen?

In her mind, she saw marauding barbarians, running up and down the corridors of the palace, wreaking havoc in the night. The thought was a chilling one and made her shudder. Because of this threat, she would have no privacy even in her own room. She hoped that this woman who was to guard her would have a pleasant disposition and be as unobtrusive as possible. And four guards whenever she left her chamber! What privacy would she have with such a party following her around?

This seemed all like a dream, a very bad dream. The notion came to her to pinch herself to see if she would wake up, but that would be absurd. This whole miserable affair, unfortunately, was quite real.

Sighing heavily, she left the garden to seek Odaragariel. As she walked, she mulled upon how she was going to announce the horrible news. How would Odare react to these changes for the worst? She was still pondering the matter when she came to the princess' door. Swallowing, she knocked furtively and waited for it to be answered.

Suddenly, Tarniel tensed as she heard a slight noise down the hall, then nervously laughed as one of the castle cats padded down the hall in search of mice. She turned back to the door, but then tensed again as she saw a shadow on the wall. Were they here already, even in the castle? The shadow was quickly followed by the slender form of her elven tutor, though, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good afternoon, Tarniel," said Arinya, smiling at her. "You look as though you've seen a ghost! What is the matter?"

"Oh, Arinya, it is horrible!" Tarniel exclaimed, her face and voice conveying her distress. "Father just told me! Everything is about to change - for the worst! Father was forced to compromise with the Hillmen, and now Princess Odaragariel and I will have to be guarded at all times! There will even be a swordswoman assigned to stay with me in my room and protect me at nighttime! I am here to tell Odaragariel the news!"

Arinya sighed and brushed a loose strand of hair back off of Tarniel's forehead. "I know of this change, Tarniel-tavaril," she said gravely. "And I can understand why your father is doing it." She held up a hand to stop Tarniel's angry protests. "You are your father's "arinya" - his "morning" - and his night would be dark indeed if you were lost. Though I am young as my people reckon age, yet I am old enough to know that there is evil in this world, and greedy men desire treasures that are not their own." She smiled down at the frustrated girl. "And the worth of a treasure is known by how well it is guarded!"

"But ... but my freedom is a treasure, too, Arinya," said Tarniel plaintively. "I can't bear to think of having my every step shadowed! And to stay in the castle - I might as well just be in a prison!"

"Then I will help to make your prison as pleasant as possible," answered Arinya. "You have praised my harp playing many times, and wished that you had time to learn to play as well as I do. Well, now we shall see if those were just flatteries to make me ease up on your studies, or if you really meant it!"

Tarniel had to smile in spite of herself. "But it's easier to complain and make excuses to not work!" she said impishly to her tutor.

Arinya laughed. "The lazy man turns on his bed as a door on its hinges," she chided gently. "But you seldom have this fault, so I will change the subject and suggest that we go to the gardens to look for the Princess Odaragariel."

"Arinya, I was just in the gardens, so I do not think that Odaragariel could be there, unless," Tarniel laughed, "she was hiding behind the bushes and trees!"

Arinya chuckled, the sound of her elven laughter like the tinkling of bells. "Then she would be more of a wood sprite than you!"

From behind the closed door, the two could hear footsteps approaching. Soon the door was opened, and Princess Odaragariel stood at the threshold.

"Tarniel and Arinya," Odaragariel greeted with a friendly smile, "good afternoon! I am delighted that you both have come to visit with me."

"I fear you will not be delighted at the news I bring," Tarniel sighed, the shadow of distress darkening her features.

Odaragariel's smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. "What is wrong?"

"The king has instructed me to bring these tidings to you. Not all is well in the kingdom. I fear that the Hillmen have grown in power, so much so that our daily lives have been threatened. Not even the palace is safe. We are to be guarded at all times by a guard of four men, and swordswomen are to watch over us at night. Oh, Odare, this is so terrible! I can barely believe it is all happening!"

Odaragariel was the Princess of Mitheithel; and that was the most extraordinary thing about her. In person, she was extremely plain... so much so that it seemed almost criminal for her to be a princess when so many lovely maidens looked so much more like one. When alive, her mother had tried her best to compensate by donning her always in the most expensive gowns, and weighing her young neck down with the showiest jewels. The habit lingered on her now. Almost unconsciously, she dressed well, always, no matter what the occasion, though the number and size of jewels had decreased... somewhat.

In manners, she was less showy, more sensible. The fact that her closest friend, Tarniel, was three or four years younger than her, had caused her, long ago, to form a resolution to always be the more mature one. So, instead of becoming sullen at Tarniel's news, as she would have a few years ago, she tried to remember she had, after all, lived to see seventeen summers. But her face betrayed her... her friendly mouth was twisted in distaste at once.

After a pause, she said, "Come inside, Tarniel, and Arinya. Are you certain? I heard rumours... mostly from your brothers. But... swordsmen in our rooms at night? Surely it's not that bad... I wonder if we shall have to be armed, though?" she asked distractedly. Unfortunately, her sensible exterior was matched by a too-vivid imagination. "I have a few daggers... very lovely, quite sharp. Never learned how to use them, of course, but maybe we'll need them now!" Already, she was stabbing a few shadowy Hillmen with spinning daggers.

"Yes, it is just as bad as I have said," Tarniel nodded grimly as Odaragariel led the princess and the elf into her chamber. Soon they were seated near one of the palace windows, Tarniel and Arinya sitting upon a long cushioned bench, Odaragariel upon a pretty curule chair.

"Father told me that a Dunedain woman, a lady suggested by the Queen, would be our guardian day and night, and then there are the four guards who are to follow us around during the day," Tarniel clarified her previous announcement as the others listened gravely. "With such precautions, I dread to think of the horrible state of affairs which we will be facing."

She paused for a moment, then added nervously, "Perhaps you would let me borrow one of those daggers, Odaragariel..."

---

Wilwarin walked through the corridors of Cameth Brin. She was slightly nervous at the prospect of meeting the princesses she would have to guard at night from now on. The King had told her to seek out the princesses on her own as it would probably upset them less. She had left her weapons at home for that reason.

She secretly suspected he didn't want to deal with upset young maidens right now, as they most likely would be. Wilwarin wasn't so sure whether she'd like a guard following her around in her own chambers herself.

But things could not be helped now. She only hoped that both princesses wouldn't make things more difficult than they already were. After all, they were under no obligation to even like her.

By now Wilwarin had reached the chambers of the Princess of Mitheithel. She could hear voices inside, so princess Tarniel was present, too. Good.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

"Let me see who that is," said Odaragariel as she rose to her feet and crossed the room.

It was annoying, she reflected, that none of her maids were around to open the door; she got up herself to do it. She was in a tetchy mood, for though she was polite as ever with Tarniel, and would never show her temper before Arinya, the news Tarniel had brought had irritated her greatly. The door revealed a woman, older than her, but it was difficult to tell how old she was; her style of clothing, and the way she wore her hair, showed her to be a Dunedain, however. She was taller than Odaragariel, and Odaragariel had to scowl upwards at the woman before her. It did not soften her mood.

"What do you want? Can't you tell we're discussing something important here?" she asked haughtily.

The woman was unperturbed, and replied softly, "I am Wilwarin, of the Dunedain. I have been sent to protect the Princesses Tarniel and Odaragariel. Who are you?"

Odaragariel bristled. "I am the Princess Odaragariel!"

"Of course, Princess." came the soft reply, but her left eyebrow was raised quizzically.

It would be undignified to shout; and besides, Odaragariel reasoned furiously, its not her fault you're to be all locked up like this. She's only following orders, and all she did was raise an eyebrow. And, even her own mother had never thought she looked much like a princess... at the last thought, she deflated, reminded herself once more of the vow of 'maturity' she had made, and instead of shouting as she felt like (she had a notorious temper), she only said stiffly, "Come in, then."

The others were now talking with Wilwarin, but Odaragariel hardly listened. She was thinking moodily of the dog races some boys were having the next day; she always liked cheering them on, and had made friends with quite a few who had, of course, no idea she was a princess... she had been planning to take Tarniel with her this time, though doubtless, Tarniel was more well-known here than she. She even had one of her maid's outfits hidden in the mattresses of her bed, but she supposed all of that was off now. She wondered vaguely what she was supposed to do now, and whether embroidery was more interesting than gardening.

Tarniel glanced over to the scowling Odaragariel, knowing that the advent of Wilwarin had perturbed her greatly. With a little sigh, she turned back to Wilwarin and Arinya. Neither princess was accustomed to such impositions upon their privacy. Of course, royal ladies always had a retinue of servants following them about; sometimes their maids even slept upon mats in the same bedchamber. But if the whim so struck the lady, she could dismiss the attentive throng with a wave of her hand and thus have the total peace of solitude. Tarniel had been aghast at her father's news, for the state of the kingdom horrified her, and she also selfishly resented the sudden change this made in her daily life.

"Wilwarin," she asked the Dunedain woman, "how good are you with a sword?"

Wilwarin answered with a half-smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

Arinya leaned forward and fixed Tarniel with her bright eyes. "Translated, that means, 'You don't want to know the answer if you're on the wrong end of my sword!' "

Tarniel smiled grudgingly at Arinya's answer. Her tutor could usually coax a smile out of her, even in her worst moods.

"But I hope you will never need to know the full answer to that question, Tarniel," added Arinya. "I hope things will not get that bad, although it is wise to prepare for the possibilities."

"That's easy for you to say, Arinya!" sulked Tarniel, angry again. "You aren't the one being shadowed and followed!"

"Then stop whining and put off your fine things and leave the palace grounds and take care of yourself!" said her tutor, finally losing her temper with her volatile charge. "Others have had it harder than you have in this world! I have had enough of your whining; either I or your whining will leave this room now. Which shall it be?"

Tarniel blushed crimson, feeling as though she could melt into the earth, and vaguely wondering why her body still remained solid. It was most undignified for a princess to be scolded in the presence of another princess and a complete stranger! She felt most rueful for her previous outburst, and fought to keep her inward cringe from changing into an outer one.

"There is no need to leave," Tarniel said calmly, attempting not to appear so horribly embarrassed. "The situation with the Hillmen has made us all nervous and easily excitable."

There was a knock on the door. Princess Odaragariel crossed the room and discovered that her missing maid had at last arrived.  
"My apologies, lady!" the girl apologized profusely.

Scowling slightly, Odaragariel tried to hide her irritation as she remarked, "Well, at last you are here! Come quickly, I have visitors."

"Yes, my lady, right away," the girl sputtered sheepishly.

Soon, Odaragariel, Wilwarin, Arinya, and Tarniel were all seated about the decently-sized table which Odaragariel used for dining or entertaining guests in her chamber. Soon the maid had returned with a pitcher of flavorful tea and some small pastries for a light repast.


	12. Mortal Wounds

On the road near Morva Torch, evening of October 6, 1347.  
Written by Angmar and Gordis. 

"Wretched luck!" Griss cursed. The sound of Uffi's screams had gotten on his nerves. He looked over to where Algeirr knelt beside the wounded man, who lay writhing on the ground.

"Griss, Heggr, Kvigr, Meldun, come over here and help me! I have to take this arrow out!"

"What about old Gunni?" Meldun, his face stark white, asked. "He is lying over there dead! What are we going to do about him?"

"We are not going to stay out here and dig a hole with our hands while Uffi bleeds to death. Now let us tend to Uffi!"

Uffi looked up and cursed all of them. "Don't take off my leg! Don't take off my leg! I'll kill all of you if you do!"

"That might be a hard thing to accomplish," Algeirr laughed grimly, "seeing as how we do not even have a knife."

Griss, with Heggr right behind him, walked over and stared at Uffi. Uffi was pounding one fist up and down on the ground as his wounded leg was bleeding him to death.

"Go find a piece of wood and if any of you has a coin, give that to me!" Algeirr commanded. "Kvigr, run over to the saddle bags, get an old shirt or something that you can rip and bring me a good length of it! Hurry! Uffi was hit in his thigh, and if we don't stop the bleeding, he will soon be a corpse!"

Griss found a coin in his money pouch, and as the three other men held Uffi down, Algeirr put the coin above the wound, wrapped the strip of cloth above the injury and wound the ends of the cloth around the length of wood that Meldun had brought. Using the stick as a windlass, Algeirr tightened the cloth until the blood flow was stanched. Griss admired the outlaw leader's calm demeanor and knowledge of treating wounds. "He must have learned quite a bit in the Arthedain army," Griss thought.

"Now comes the difficult part." Algeirr smiled grimly at Kvigr, who was holding Uffi by the arm. Breaking off the feathered end of the arrow, Algeirr pushed the whole shaft through Uffi's thigh until the arrow head protruded out the other side. Uffi shrieked and thrashed in pain and the men holding him could barely keep him on the ground in his struggles. Algeirr tossed the remaining shaft and bloody arrowhead over into a pile of weeds. Wiping off his perspiring forehead, Algeirr nodded to Griss.

"Go over to the saddle bags and find some more old shirts, breeches, anything that might be there, so that I can bind up this wound to keep the dirt out of it."

Mercifully, Uffi had fainted by the time his wound was bound up. When he had revived, they hoisted him up on one of the horses while Algeirr rode behind in the saddle, keeping the weakened man from falling. Kvigr was assigned the task of walking beside the horse and attending to the tourniquet. Algeirr reminded him as they set off for Broggha's camp, "Keep the tourniquet tight. After guessing when about ten minutes have passed, let the blood run for a little while, and retighten the cloth. It is the best we can do for him."

They had barely started moving towards Broggha's camp, when Algeirr suddenly stopped the horse and slipped out of the saddle, motioning Meldun to take his place.

"I will stay here and try to find out weapons," he said. "I can't face the Jarl unarmed, like a beaten dog. You go now and bring Uffi to the healer. Don't brag about our misadventures, probably at night nobody will notice that you are weaponless."

Griss started to protest, but he saw the wisdom of Algeirr's plan. The last thing he wanted was to be ridiculed by all the camp.

"I will return tomorrow to help you, if I can," Griss ventured.

The ride seemed endless. Night had fallen, cold and dark, a thin sliver of sickle moon hanging low in the sky. Uffi had long stopped moaning and slumped in the saddle in front of Meldun.

At last, Griss took a sharp turn left, off the road. Soon they saw a welcoming blaze of torches through the trees. The camp sentries, once they recognized Griss and Heggr, seemed little inclined to question them further and let them into the wide clearing.

Late as it was, the camp was still awake, bawdy songs, muffled cries and drunken laughter resounding in the surrounding trees. It seemed there was some drunken revelry going on. Kvigr saw a large, brightly lit wooden building with sentries at the entrance. Griss told him it was Broggha's hall, and disappeared in this direction to warn the Jarl of their return and to give him an account of his mission.

Griss reappeared quite soon though, bringing the news that the Jarl had gone to bed with his wenches, and was not to be disturbed until morning. The mention of wenches brought the ache and frustration back, and the men cursed under their breath, vowing to find this bloody Tark named Taurendol again and make him pay.

"There are guests from the North in the camp today," explained Griss, pointing to a medium-sized black tent erected near Broggha's longhouse. The outlaws looked in wonder at the two somberly-clad men guarding the tent - obviously both were Tarks.

Meanwhile, Heggr returned from another direction, bringing back a squat old man in dirty leathers and furs, with a grand necklace of bear's teeth hanging around his neck. Several other charms were attached to his wrists and sleeves.

"Here is Hrani, our shaman-healer," announced Heggr proudly. "He will attend to Uffi's leg."

In Arthedain army, Kvigr had grown used to neat, efficient tark-healers, so he looked in doubt at the dirty little man who was peering at them owlishly, obviously just out of his bedroll. Moreover, the shaman was reeking of cheap ale and swaying drunkenly on his feet.

But what choice did they have? Soon Uffi, still unconscious, was lying on his back on the ground near one of the campfires, while the healer, having cut away his pants, examined his wound, prodding it with his dirty fingers.

"I think he is a goner anyway," declared the healer after the briefest examination. "But perhaps he will live, if I cut away this leg." He grinned at the assembled men, obviously happy with his own competence.

The shaman took out a long knife and started cutting the flesh just below the makeshift tourniquet. Uffi sprang back to consciousness, screaming and trashing. Heggr quickly found a splinter of wood and pushed it into Uffi's mouth, lest he bit off his own tongue. The others now firmly held Uffi's legs and arms, while Kvigr applied his weight to the man's shoulders.

Soon the healer put away his knife and pulled out of his bag a small saw. Kvigr watched in horror how the old rusty saw bit into the bleeding flesh, cutting the white bone with a sickening sound. Uffi cried for the last time and swooned again.

Kvigr felt the bile rising in his throat and turned his head to look away. He suddenly noticed a very tall, richly clad Tark standing nearby and watching the gruesome scene with morbid fascination, a faint smile playing on his thin lips. To Kvigr's surprise, the Tark somehow felt the youth's intense gaze, and turning abruptly he made his way to the black tent near Broggha's quarters.

"A man from the North," thought Kvigr, shivering, cold dread creeping over him. He heard many tales about the northern sorcerers told at night around campfires. It was said the witches of the North could charm you with their gaze like a serpent charms a mouse; he heard they could disappear and reappear out of nothing; some said they could even fly... A brief look at the man's face somehow made such tales seem all too real.

At this moment Uffi started to scream again, a high tortured wail. Kvigr smelled the reek of burning flesh, and saw that the stump had just been cauterized. It seemed they used the blade of a broad battle axe, heated in the flames of the nearby campfire. At this moment, Kvigr's guts suddenly convulsed and he rushed to the nearby bushes to vomit.

---

Balling his hand into a fist, Heggr pressed it firmly against his abdomen and belched loudly. Griss ignored the sound and concentrated on the piece of stringy venison that he was chewing. He could not help feeling sorry for the other man whose bad teeth pained him, often giving him so much trouble that when he ate, he settled for a bowl of stew. Both men had been concerned that there would be nothing left to fill their stomachs in the camp, but they had been pleasantly surprised that there was a great amount of food left over.

Across the campfire from them, Uffi was beyond the point of knowing or caring that he had lost his leg. Occasionally the man moaned and twitched in his slumber.

"Ought to put the poor devil out of his misery," Heggr mumbled as he stuck a finger in his mouth and tried to work loose a piece of vegetable that had gotten caught in one of the decaying holes in a tooth.

"He won't last long. He'll either get fever or some raging infection." Griss finished the piece of venison and wiped his hands off on his filthy leathers.

Heggr's mind was soon on something more pleasant. "You know I'm going to miss that woman. She was a pretty little thing," he said mournfully.

"You're not going to miss her half as much as I will. She doesn't have anything much left that I didn't explore," Griss chuckled proudly.

Heggr shot him a dirty glance. "I didn't get to do much exploring at all! You always get the best of everything!"

"No point in talking about her! No point in even thinking about her! We'll never see that pretty little morsel again."

"I have quit thinking about her! I am consoling myself by reflecting upon all the pretty little wenches in Cameth Brin who will be falling all over themselves just for the chance to be with Broggha's men."

"We'll have our pick there!" Griss agreed enthusiastically.

Heggr yawned. "I don't know about you but I'm tired and my teeth are bothering me. I'm going over to our lean-to and try to get a little sleep before we have to get up."

Griss grunted a "good night" to him and looked over the fire at Uffi. He could see by the light that Uffi's eye sockets were bathed in shadow, but his face looked a ghastly ashen color. Griss wondered if the man would live through the night. He shrugged his shoulders and spat in the fire. "Nothing to me if he lives or dies."

Griss amused himself for a while by thinking about the wenches of Cameth Brin and how he would have his fill of them, but then he looked over to the Jarl's longhouse. One of those Northern men had just come out of the tent near the cabin. "Must be taking a nighttime stroll," he thought. Griss looked back into the fire, but he had the sensation that eyes were upon him, eyes which could almost bore into the soul. Feeling uncomfortable, he resolved to study the fire and not look up. However, he sensed something compelling him to gaze at the tent. What was worse was that he felt himself rising to his feet, walking through the assembled gathering around the fire and making his way towards the tent.

As he had feared, it was one of those Tark men from the North. A chill ran down his spine. "Must be the coolness of the night," he concluded, not wanting to admit to himself that the Tark made him unreasonably afraid.

"Let us walk," the tall, richly dressed man said pleasantly as he moved away from the tent. Like a lapdog, Griss followed him into the woods until the man stopped near a large tree.

"Your name is Griss."

"Yes," Griss replied almost mechanically.

"That youth - Kvigr I believe is his name - is weak and not to be trusted. Do you want a man like that around Jarl Broggha?"

"No, certainly not."

"You want to keep the Jarl safe, do you not?"

"I would die for him!" Griss exclaimed.

"I do not think that will be necessary, but I am confident that should the occasion demand, you would lay down your life for him. You are extremely loyal, Griss, and the Jarl is proud of you, more than any of his other men."

Feeling proud at the compliments, Griss began to relax. "Surely this man is no enemy, though some in camp are terrified of him," he thought, proud to have been singled out.

"Weak men are dangerous, treacherous... When you have the opportunity, Griss, eliminate Kvigr quietly so that his friends will never know what happened to him. I know you can be trusted to do it efficiently."

"It would be my great pleasure," Griss answered, inclining his head towards the man and beginning to feel a growing loyalty to him.

"You will be successful. Come now, let us go back to the camp." The man turned and beckoned to Griss.

Griss felt an almost euphoric feeling as he walked back with the man. It was though he could see into the future. He was dressed much like the Northern man in fine clothing, and he was sitting in a great hall on Broggha's right side. Griss smiled to himself.


	13. Plotting and Suffering

Cameth Brin, afternoon of October 6, 1347 Written by Gordis 

When Tarnendur's heavy footfalls died in the distance, Gimilbeth sat for some time immobile, thinking furiously. The King was making a big mistake, and there was no way out of it that she could see.

Gimilbeth wouldn't have hesitated to start clandestine diplomatic relations with Angmar behind her father's back, but much as she tried, she couldn't pinpoint any Angmarian spies in Cameth Brin. She didn't believe that there were none, of course, but it seemed they were too clever to be detected. Not like the old Curugil, the head of the King's Private council: not only was he appointed Seneschal of Rhudaur on Malvegil's bequest, but everyone knew that he was sending reports to Malvegil almost every month. Any of the others, who were so keen on alliance with Broggha, could have been on Angmar's payroll.

"Which one?" thought Gimilbeth. "Turamir? Belzagar? Or all of them?" The last idea was far too disconcerting, but not impossible. She decided to have a cup of Khandian coffee with each suspect in turn, probing them gently. Then she could try to send a message North...

But it was for the future. Now she had a more immediate task on her hands: to stop Broggha from entering Cameth Brin. The man should be removed as soon as possible. No time to bargain with Carn Dum, proposing Rhudaur's allegiance in exchange for Broggha's head. Gimilbeth thought of poison, or an assassination. But how to get to Broggha in his camp, amidst thousands of loyal Hillmen?

There was only one answer to this problem: magic. As little time as she had to leaf through the black book, she knew already that it mostly contained various spells, including malicious magic devised to ruin and cause to perish men and women, cattle and flocks and herds and animals of every kind, meadows, pastures, harvests, grains and other fruits of the earth, to afflict and torture with dire pains and anguish these men, women, cattle, flocks, herds, and animals, and hinder men from begetting and women from conceiving.

There was one particular spell that could suit her quite well, the one sending a knife to seek the blood of the chosen person. If cast properly, this spell would find Broggha in his secure camp - anyone of his men might be compelled to kill him.

Gimilbeth berated herself bitterly for her cowardice: she had the book for ninety years, but only opened it this morning. Now she had to act almost blindly, an inexperienced amateur trying to cast a powerful spell that might prove too difficult for her. Gimilbeth refused to think what would happen if the spell went wrong and rebounded on her. Regardless of the danger, she decided to try this very night.

Her decision made, Gimilbeth rose and stretched like a big lazy cat. She was bone-tired after a night spent down in Tanoth Brin. She couldn't afford two sleepless nights in a row, lest her creamy skin becomes sallow, and dark circles appear around her eyes.

Gimilbeth went upstairs to her bedroom and ordered Nimraen, a Gondorian maid, to prepare her herbal face mask. Soon Gimilbeth was sleeping peacefully in her feather bed, a big fluffy cat at her feet and the green herbal mask on her face.

Once, long ago, a new maid came unexpectedly into Gimilbeth's room, saw her green face, dropped the tray with coffee and ran screaming all the way to Tanoth Brin. Hillmen were simple folk and firmly believed in magic, witches and fairies. Now the fact that Gimilbeth turned into a frog every night had been firmly established, and gossip carried it far and wide through the land. Old matrons at the castle and down in Tanoth Brin shook their heads, pitying Gimilbeth's future husband. And the fact that in 20 years no one was forthcoming was another proof of Gimilbeth's weirdness.

* * *

On the road leaving Morva Torch, evening of October 6, 1347 Written by Rian

Callon sighed again. What had those men done to his sister while he was examining the wounded mare? Terrible pictures rushed into his brain. He shook his head in frustration and rage, but only allowed himself a slight movement - he didn't want to disturb his sister, leaning stiffly and silently against him as they rode double on her mare. The man walking next to them shook his head in silent sympathy; he, too, had a sister...

In the general bustle of leaving, Callon had managed to grab the arm of the leader, Eryndil, and take him aside for a quick whispered conference. "How was my sister? What did they ... what had they done to her?" he had asked the man urgently.

"I don't know," Eryndil had answered, concern showing in his eyes. "When I found them, they were arguing over things that a young lady such as your sister (so she was his sister!) should never have to hear. Brutish barbarians!" He lowered his voice. "I'll be frank, so you'll know what you have to deal with - they were discussing raping her and then murdering both of you. She was bound and gagged and could hear everything they said. And - I'm sorry, but by the look of her clothing, I think they had already taken some liberties with her."

Callon bit his lip hard; he felt sick. His sister, whom he had taken on this trip to protect ... Eryndil put his hand on Callon's shoulder. "She was brave, your sister - there was no fear in her eyes. But there was something perhaps worse - an emptiness... If they are too strong to give in to fear, perhaps that is all that's left to them - to leave, as the elves do ... "

At that point, one of Eryndil's men had come over to him to confer about some detail of the next part of their journey, and Eryndil released his hold on Callon's shoulder, saying, "We can talk more later - right now, the sooner we leave, the better for us all."

Callon nodded and joined his sister, who was standing by her mare, Hwesta. Caelen's eyes were fixed on the horse's soft muzzle as she stroked it gently over and over, her hand shaking.

"Come Caelie, we have to get away from here. Eryndil is waiting."

Caelen nodded absently and mounted the mare in front of Callon.

---

Caelen leaned against her brother out of sheer exhaustion, but was unable to relax. She had to keep alert and strong; she had to keep ahead of the memories before they overtook her in a dark, terrifying wave.

"It wasn't me they ... it wasn't me ... they didn't really touch ME," she thought wildly, her mind racing frantically around, trying to not alight anywhere too long.

Callon shifted slightly in the saddle, and she felt his hard, toned leg muscles against her body - the muscles of a strong, expert rider. She recoiled in fear and felt a stark panic rising within her that she couldn't understand. "My brother! My brother! He would never hurt me!" she told the fear in her head, and then dimly realized that it was the mere presence of strength that had frightened her. The strength of men, that had so recently ... but that hadn't happened to her, really, not really to her ...

"Shhh, shhh, Caelie, I'm here," soothed Callon, stroking her hair, and then realized with a sick feeling that his being there hadn't been much good so far.

* * *

October 7, noon - on the march north from the rescue. Written by Valandil

"We can rest here," said Eryndil, indicating a small clearing - really no more than a break in the trees of about 6 ranger each way - with a fallen tree trunk across it, which could make for convenient seating.

"No fire," he added, stepping aside to let the party pass him. He watched the eyes of each one as they trooped past. Some of his men exchanged with him a nod. But they all went past and selected a spot, where they dropped their burdens and stretched out to rest, even while they opened their bags for a small repast.

When Callon and Caelen at last came, still mounted, Eryndil reached out his hand to take the bridle from Narbeth.

"My apologies that we cannot provide you with more comfort here, milady. Unfortunately, our circumstances will not allow it."

But then he turned and gestured for two of his men to vacate what appeared to be the better places to rest, and motioned for Callon and Caelen to dismount and seat themselves there. They had brought much provision of their own, so Eryndil took one of their bags and handed it to Callon, that he might share some of its contents with his sister. They seemed grateful, but also awkward in their response.

"Why do I make so much over them?" he thought to himself. Each of his few attempts to speak with Caelen had felt awkward. He had noted the sidelong glances of his men (though none had dared to say a word) - so he had thenceforth directed his speech only to Callon. What was it about Caelen that set him at a loss?

Perhaps she was like his younger sister? Well... both like and unlike. She did not look too much the same. Yet perhaps there was something alike in their hearts. He was quite fond of his sister - and hoped to somehow spare her the fate that seemed in store for this land.

Caelen... it would be worthwhile to spare her too.

* * *

October 7, noon - on the march north from the rescue Written by Rian

Caelen leaned against the tree trunk wearily, her brother's cloak wrapped around her. Her mare munched some goodies in her nose bag close by. Men moved quietly but purposefully around the camp. She huddled deeper into Callon's cloak; the scent of horses, mixed in with her brother's scent, comforted her a little. Eryndil's men were careful to keep their distance from her, as per his orders.

She watched Eryndil and her brother as they spoke together quietly, heads bent together, and wondered briefly what they were talking about before she sank back into the kind of stunned wariness that she had retreated into since those men had mistreated her. Before today, men were either nice or neutral or bad, but the few bad ones were kept off by the nice ones. But when bad men had power, too, and were more in number, then even nice men apparently weren't enough to keep them off ...

Yet these men she was with now had saved her and her brother. What were they like? Why were they with the king, and not the bandits? Were they power-seekers, too, or was it possible that they actually wanted to use their strength for good, as her father and brother had? But she had heard of deserters from the King - they were probably just there for now until a better opportunity arose. Eryndil's men had treated her with respect, though, even though they had opportunity to do otherwise.

She was glad that they were leaving her alone - she realized with a shock that even the maleness of her brother was starting to disgust her a little bit. "That's not fair!" she told herself firmly. "He can't help being a man! And he's always cared for me!" She shifted uneasily, trying to find a more comfortable spot, and some more comfortable thoughts, but the difficult thoughts kept intruding. Why did Eru make women weaker than men? Or if he chose to do that, why did he make men with ugly passions towards women who were too weak to fight them off, and were at the mercy of the nice men showing up ... or not showing up?

She remembered a time just a few months ago, when she had caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror that had made her stop and look in surprise. Her mother had just finished putting up her hair and she was wearing one of her nicer dresses - they were heading over to a friend's house to celebrate an anniversary. Her mother came up behind her laid her head next to Caelen's, smiling in that soft, lovely way she had that started with her lips and ended in her sparkling eyes. Her father came up behind them and wrapped his arms around them from behind, his strong, handsome face reflected in the mirror above theirs. "My lovely ladies," he said, with a kiss for them both, before he headed off down the hall.

Caelen, who was rarely out of riding habit, couldn't get the image of herself out of her mind, and the blush it brought to her cheeks was noticed by more than one young man that night. She had wondered about this new side she had just seen of herself - it seemed fragile and beautiful, like her mother, but like her mother it had a strength, too. Her mother, whom most people would call quite beautiful, was not a weak beauty - she had no problem controlling her strong husband and sons, although Caelen wasn't quite sure how she did it. However she did it, though, it was obvious that her men liked it.

But those men on the road had a different kind of strength, and had taken the fragile, beautiful thing she had seen in herself, and grabbed at it, and fouled it, and torn it, and laughed over it, and it was crying inside of her now, seeking only to hide.

Callon finished his talk with Eryndil and headed towards her. She huddled further into his cloak.

* * *

October 8, before dawn - the Royal Palace at Fornost Written by Valandil

Beleg rose to the tapping on the door before the servant came inside to verify that he had been awakened. "It's alright, I'm ready."

He threw off his covers and pulled aside the curtain of his sleeping booth. His room was cramped, so it was but a couple short steps to see if the embers of the fire still gave off any heat - not much. He stretched and took up the bundle he had gathered last night. For one who would someday be King, he owned little enough of the Kingdom now, he thought - but it made for easier packing. There would be a warm fire in the kitchen, and breakfast besides. And then they would depart - for Amon Sul.

His mother had chastised him last night for appealing to his grandfather Malvegil, but Beleg was disappointed. It had been their long tradition to spend every second winter - and Yule season - at Amon Sul, the home of his mother's parents. But each time before, he had been allowed to take some of his closest friends. "Not this year," had replied his grandfather, "for I have other errand for them."

So his only company this year would be his father, mother, brother and sister. Not even his cousin could go. They would be joined by a few servants and a strong bodyguard - including 30 horsemen - as his father, Celebrindol, strove to build a cavalry for Arthedain.

If this year was like the others, the travel would be leisurely enough. And with a day's stop at Bree, they would likely arrive at the tower in 12 to 14 days. It would be a pleasant enough trip - enhanced by the bright colors of an Arthedain autumn.

Beleg sighed; the Eryhantale had passed a week before, and last night had concluded the feasting of the Harvest Festival Week. Now the fare would be harder until the Yule Feast, as everyone kept aside what they could for the long winter to come. Meanwhile, it was time to descend from his third story cell - and see what the kitchen far below might have to offer one about to set forth on a journey. Maybe something good not taken in the feasting.


	14. Surest Way to Njamo

Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.  
Written by Gordis, Elfhild and Angmar. 

It was the dark pre-dawn hour, when a low, tortured moan roused Kvigr from an uneasy sleep. Sitting up, he noticed Uffi on the other side of the campfire. The man groaned and moaned pitifully in his sleep. Kvigr approached Uffi and tried to give him some water. The wounded man was unconscious, but drank greedily. Kvigr covered Uffi against the night cold with his own cloak, but there was little else he could do, so he sat nearby looking at the fire.

His thoughts took an unusually dark turn. He was thinking of Uffi, and the time when they served together at Rammas Formen. Uffi was a rough, unruly man, but an experienced soldier. Now he was dying.

Kvigr shriveled. Where would Uffi go, when dead? Would his soul live in eternal bliss beyond the Circles of the World, on the White Mountain, feasting with the Gods and the bright Avalai? Would the Mighty Manvur, the Father of Gods, and Yavaya the Fertile, the Goddess of Life, welcome him? Would Tulkar the Strong admit him at the table where brave Men drink and feast with beautiful Avalai maidens for all eternity?

Or would his soul be cast down to Hell, the place of eternal darkness and cold, where naked and shriveled souls wander, lost forever, until the God of the Underworld, the Dark Njamo, the one with wolf's head and burning eyes, devours them?

Kvigr did not know the answer. He silently vowed to make an offering to Tulkar for protection of Uffi's sinful soul. Manvur was too high for such simple gifts as Kvigr was able to offer. All the soldiers and most other men prayed to Tulkar, or to Orri the Hunter, while women traditionally brought gifts to Yavaya, whose wooden statues could be found in every village. Yavaya's fat breasts and hips were always covered with flowers, strings of beads and bright ribbons.

Thinking of Yavaya, Kvigr suddenly became aware of a woman's figure near the biggest campfire in front of Broggha's longhouse. Surprised, he approached, remaining in shadows outside the ring of light, and watched. The woman was busy preparing an early breakfast. She filled a kettle with water from a barrel and put it on a makeshift hearth to boil. Kvigr noticed that she was quite tall and had tousled dark hair. "A Tark wench?" he thought.

Then the woman turned and Kvigr almost cried out. It was the beautiful Lady Aewen herself, the haughty daughter of the Count of Pennmorva! Accompanied by a suite of guards and ladies in waiting, she used to ride sometimes through his poor village, earning admiring and reverent glances from the peasants, awestruck by her rich clothes and kingly demeanor.

Now her dress was a wreck, her hair unbound and dirty. Kvigr noticed a dark bruise on her chin, and the swollen lower lip. His heart filled with pity, he crawled nearer and softly called to her, "My Lady Aewen..."

The woman turned sharply, trying to make out his form in the darkness. Then, after a brief glance at the still dark and silent longhouse, she left the circle of light and approached.

Kviggr continued, trying to sound reassuring "My lady, I am Kvigr, son of Ulfr, the blacksmith, from your father's village of Penn. I don't think you remember me, but, please, tell me what has happened? Are my folk still alive?"

It was as though the shame clutched Aewen's body and she longed to sink into the earth, to hide under a rock somewhere. This young man, one of the hillmen marauders, knew of her when she was once the daughter of a Count, for he was of her village! Oh, the disgrace into which she had fallen, once a noblewoman, now the mistress of a barbarian!

Her voice low, Aewen began to speak. "Your mother was still alive last I knew, but your father, while hunting, was fallen on by orcs and slain. Then sometime later, the village was attacked by orcs, with many of the men slain, the young women carried off, the old women and most of the children left to survive as best they could. Then a few days later, Broggha came and proclaimed to the survivors that he would put the village under his protection if those remaining elders and leaders would swear fealty to him and pay him the required tributes.

"Then that night he came to my father's keep and saw me. He demanded that my father turn me over as a thrall or he would kill everyone in the keep. My father argued and the two struggled, but one blow from Broggha's mighty fist left him unconscious upon the floor, near death. Father later died the next day when his heart stopped; brought on, we thought, by his old age and the injury he had sustained. One of his chieftains was put in charge of our property and the rest of my family was thrown out of the keep to live as best they could. My ladies-in-waiting were given over to his men. I had no sisters and my brothers were little more than children. I do not know where they are now."

Hearing of the grim fate of his folk and of the death of his old father, Kvigr hung his head, trying to hold back stinging tears.

Aewen looked about nervously. "Now I must attend to the cooking, for someone is always watching me."

Aewen turned to leave, but Kvigr stopped her. He put his hand on her shoulder and stood on tiptoe whispering hotly in her ear.

"I will not serve these brigands. I am leaving today for good. I have a horse, we've had three for five men, but now, with Gunni gone and Uffi as good as dead, one is rightfully mine. It is but a poor nag, but it can carry you. Your father has always been kind to us poor folk, so I will help you run away. Meet me in an hour - I will be waiting for you behind this oak yonder" - he indicated a huge oak-tree within the perimeter of the camp, its base hidden by thick undergrowth.

Aewen shook her head sadly. "I can get to the tree, I think, but they will never let us out of the camp. There are sentries everywhere..."

"I will give you men's clothes and a cloak. They will not know you," Kvigr said with more confidence than he actually felt. "They won't be suspicious in daylight."

---

After the conversation with the Northern nobleman, Griss felt elated as he walked back to the lean-to that he shared with Heggr. Going to his cache of weapons in the makeshift dwelling, Griss selected a dagger. Heggr woke up and grumbled sleepily before he rolled over on his side and went back to sleep. Shaking him roughly by the shoulder, Griss growled harshly, "We have a little mission to attend to today, so arm yourself well."

"What is it, Griss? Does the Jarl have something he wants us to do?"

"No," Griss smiled, "someone much more powerful than the Jarl has a task for me, and you are going to help me."

Yawning and shaking his head, Heggr sat up on his fur bed. "All right, what are we supposed to do?" he grumbled.

Griss drew his finger across his own throat from left to right.

"Oh," Heggr managed a nasty smile, even though he was half asleep. "Who are we supposed to kill?"

"Kvigr."

"Ohh, Kvigr - that arrogant pup that Algeirr keeps around." Heggr rubbed his hand through his long, unkept beard. "That youth will not be any problem, and the way my teeth are hurting this morning, I need something to take my mind off them. A killing would do nicely to distract me. How are we going to do it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"We're going to follow him, and when he is far out in the forest, away from anyone, we will slit his throat and dump his body into the Morva. No one will ever know anything, and if he is ever found, his death can always be blamed on the orcs. Sleep a while longer, Heggr. I'm going back out to keep an eye on him."

"Whatever you say, Griss," Heggr concurred and then settled back in his furs.

Griss left the low, slant-roof lean-to and walked out into the gathering daylight. "There that little rat is, talking to Aewen. Broggha is not going to like this when I tell him, and I don't think he will be a bit displeased when we get rid of the little cur."

Griss walked to a tree and leaned his back up against it, lounging nonchalantly as he cleaned his fingernails with the point of his knife. The North men were leaving that morning; their servants had already disassembled the black tent and packed it on the baggage wagon. Griss noticed that the Jarl was talking to the nobleman and smiling broadly.

The nobleman slowly turned his head in Griss' direction and nodded. Griss suddenly felt charged with more confidence than he ever knew in his life. He felt that he was ready to tackle a whole army. He basked in that feeling as the riders mounted their horses and then watched, awe-struck, as they rode away.

"I can do anything," Griss thought. "Anything!"

---

After saying his farewells to the departing Angmarians, Broggha turned back to the longhouse, when, not far from the fire, he suddenly spotted Aewen talking with a man. The Jarl's grin turned into an expression of livid anger.

"Get away from her and keep away!" the Jarl snarled. "Or I'll break your neck with my bare hands!"

Kvigr was startled. He jumped back and disappeared in the thick bushes. Aewen flinched when she heard the words and looked to the ground.

Curling his forefinger to her, Broggha ordered gruffly, "Go into the long house, wench! Looks like you need to learn a few more lessons!"

"Yes, Jarl," she replied with resignation as she followed him to the building.

From his hiding place, Kvigr watched with helpless anger how Broggha led the poor lady Aewen away. He bit his lip stubbornly... "I will help her, or die trying," he thought angrily.

In an hour, he and Griss should go join Algeirr. He thought of borrowing Meldun's clothes, and make Aewen pass for one of his comrades, leaving the camp with them. The sentries would hardly check all the company, if Griss were with them. But would Griss agree to help? Kvigr doubted it.

---

Though her tortured body ached, Aewen kept it painfully immobile as she lay beside the Jarl. The brute was asleep at last, the intensity of his loud snoring almost making the bed rumble. She barely dared to breathe, for the sound might bring him to fearful wakefulness, which would rouse his temper once again and rekindle the savage urgings of his brutal heart. When Broggha had dragged her back into the house, he had slapped her face repeatedly, adding more bruises to her already battered flesh. Taking his great, hairy-knuckled hands, he clasped her about the shoulders and shook her, making her head flop up and down, which brought breath-stealing pains stabbing betwixt her shoulders. And then he had - well, what he did every night. This time, though, he was especially rough, for this was punishment for her talking to Kvigr. Oh, the man was cruel, heartless!

Agonizing moments passed, with the only sounds her quiet breathing and the Jarl's snoring. Her mind ruminated upon the words of Kvigr.

"I will not serve these brigands. I am leaving today for good. I have a horse, we've had three for five men, but now, with Gunni gone and Uffi as good as dead, one is rightfully mine. It is but a poor nag, but it can carry you. Your father had always been kind to us poor folk, so I will help you run away. Meet me in an hour - I will be waiting for you behind this oak yonder."

Could it be done? Could she really escape? What about Maleneth? It would be a miracle if Aewen could successfully flee with Kvigr; to bring Maleneth along as well would make it almost impossible. But perhaps if Aewen managed to escape, Maleneth would take heart and find a way to take flight from the hill-men. If one could do it, then so could another...

Slowly, as not to wake the slumbering Jarl, Aewen slid from the bed. After quietly wetting a rag, she washed herself and then dressed. Sneaking over to one of the narrow windows of the longhouse, she peered out into the early morning darkness. The sun had not yet risen, but she was soon to do so, and the sky was just starting to lighten in the east. Aewen felt emboldened when she saw no one about.

Very quietly, she opened the door and just as quietly shut it behind her. Slipping through the still morning as silent as a cat, Aewen made her way to the oak tree and darted behind the undergrowth which grew about it so as to shield herself from the view of any in the camp.

---

Uncertain what to do, Kvigr returned to the fire to see that Uffi was not breathing anymore. He lay white and still, his mouth wide open, and the slow autumn flies were crawling over his face. Kvigr sank to the ground thinking furiously. Now someone had to carry the body out of the camp to bury it. No one would protest, if he volunteered to do the job. And then, once out of sight behind this oak, he would hide the body in the bushes, and tie Aewen face-down on the nag's back instead. Kvigr grinned. This plan should work.

Having made his decision, Kvigr shook the sleeping Meldun and sent him to fetch Hrani, the shaman. Soon a small group of bleary-eyed, sleepy men assembled around the body. Hearing that Uffi had no weapons to bury with him, Hrani went to his shed and brought a rusty old knife which he placed in Uffi's right hand.

"The wretch will need something on his way to Njamo," the old shaman grumbled.

The others looked at him uneasily, the whites of their eyes showing, and their hands making an old protective sign, to ward off evil spirits. It was really bad luck to die like that, in sickness, not in battle, like a man should.

In a cracked, old voice, the shaman intoned an incantation to Tulkar for protection of Uffi's soul. Then he put some grains into his left hand: no one was going to spare food to bury with the wretched newcomer, much less a horse or a woman. Kvigr added a copper coin that he placed in Uffi's mouth.

"Now, who is going to bury him, lads?" Hrani asked.

"I will," Kvigr replied over a lump in his throat. He hoped the others had not noticed his nervousness.

As he hoped, nobody objected. Meldun halfheartedly proposed to help him, but Kvigr declined.

"I will do it myself. Just fetch me a spade somewhere," he said. "I will tie him onto the nag and carry him away, and then I will dig a grave." One of the men led Meldun to a shed where tools were kept. Soon they returned with a spade.

"Where do you bury them?" Kvigr asked and looked around the stirring camp, his heart beating furiously. But his luck held.

"Over there, behind that hillock," replied Hrani, spitting, and pointed roughly in the same direction where the old oak stood. "But make sure you get away from the camp at least for a quarter of a mile. We want no ghosts here. I will tell the sentries to let you through the outposts."

Kviggr's heart leaped. Soon, aided by Hrani, he got Uffi's body draped face-down over the horse's back, arms and legs dangling. He put Uffi's cloak on top of him and fixed all with a rope. Kvigr made sure to tie the rope quite loosely, to be able to untie it with one pull.

The group around the fire had all dissipated but for Hrani, who stood indifferently nearby, chewing something. As soon as Kvigr was ready, the shaman started walking in front of the nag, showing him the way.

In a minute or two, they were behind the oak, hidden from view by the thick undergrowth surrounding the tree. Seeing that Hrani's back was turned to him, Kvigr pulled the end of the rope and gave Uffi's shoulder a push. The body slid from horseback and collapsed into the thick heather. Hearing the commotion, Hrani turned and cursed Kvigr.

"Don't you know how to tie a knot, you stupid suckling? Now fix the mess yourself, and I will go ahead and warn the sentries. Just tell them your name, and they will let you pass."

Hrani's squat figure disappeared behind the trees. Kvigr proceeded to carry Uffi to the base of the oak: lying there, the body was entirely hidden by bushes even from attentive eyes. Kvigr retrieved the rusty knife from Uffi's right hand and put it in his pocket. Then he lifted the old cloak that covered the body and called softly.

"Lady Aewen, are you here?"


	15. At the Cemetery

Morva Torch, October 7, 1347, early hours.  
Written by Angmar, Elfhild and Gordis. 

From his vantage point against the tall tree, Griss looked over the camp. Uffi had died sometime during the night. The man had been a simpleton to let himself be wounded so easily. Now that little weasel Kvigr was making a stir about it, even going through the old ritual required for burial. "At least he has volunteered to plant Uffi," Griss thought with a feeling of satisfaction. "We don't want the corpse lying around, stinking up the camp. At least the little pup is good for something."

Let the dog have his little ceremony! Griss wouldn't say anything. He finished cleaning his nails with his knife and sheathed the blade as he watched Kvigr and the shaman disappear into the forest with the horse carrying the body of Uffi.  
They had been gone some minutes when the thought suddenly struck Griss:

"Maybe after he buries the body, Kvigr will just keep going." The thought was certainly sobering. He must alert Heggr; the two of them should follow Kvigr, and after he had dug the grave, they could kill him.

"Perfect," Griss thought. "He has dug his own grave!"

He brought his fingers to his lips and whistled, the signal for Heggr to join him. No response! The fool was still sleeping! Griss sprinted to the lean-to that the two shared.

"You dim-witted sluggard! Didn't you hear my whistle?" Griss muttered as he shook Heggr awake.

"What?" Heggr mumbled sleepily.

"Get up! The prey is escaping!"

As the two men came out of the lean-to, they heard the Jarl bellow, "Where has the wench Aewen gone?"

---

Aewen shrank deeper into the woods as she heard the two men approach. From her hiding place behind the bole of a large tree, she watched as a large form fell into the underbrush and listened in to the subsequent words exchanged by Kvigr and the shaman. She sighed in relief when the old man walked away, but she did not move until she heard Kvigr's voice.

"Lady Aewen, are you here?"

"Yes, I am here," Aewen murmured as she emerged from the woods.

Kvigr smiled warmly, pausing momentarily to allow his eyes to take in the lady's beauty. "I am glad you could get away." He lowered his voice, looking around suspiciously. "Did anyone see you coming?"

"No," she shook her head. "When I left, Broggha was snoring deeply; he does not even know that I am gone." Her cheeks flamed with a furious blush, but the shadows under the trees hid her color from Kvigr's view. Still, she turned her head away, as though looking off in the distance.

"Good," Kvigr nodded.

Aewen looked back at Kvigr. "So what is the plan?" she asked quickly, changing the subject.

"I volunteered to take Uffi's body a goodly distance from camp and bury him behind the hill yonder." He pointed in that direction. "The shaman has gone ahead to advise the guards of my coming. Quick, allow me to assist you in climbing upon the horse's back. Then, when you are settled, I will tie you to the horse and throw the cloak over you. The sentries will think that it is Uffi who I am taking out of the camp. When we have ridden away to a safe distance, I will untie you and you can ride behind me. Then I will urge the horse into a gallop and we will make our escape."

"You are going to tie me to the horse?" she asked uncertainly, her eyebrows raising. Perhaps she had made a mistake in trusting this man... perhaps he did not wish to save her at all, and only wanted her for himself!

Kvigr guessed what she was thinking, and he winced slightly. But what reason did she have to trust him? Had he not kept company with outlaws? "Do not be afraid! You can trust me! Hurry, because soon the sun will be rising!"

Aewen hesitated a moment, but only a moment, for she heard the sounds of Broggha's earth-shaking bellows. Her body suddenly leaped into life - her heart pounding, breath coming quickly, hands trembling, palms clammy. The fear of Kvigr was far less right now than the fear of Broggha, and so, with the young man's help, she scrambled upon the back of the horse, unflinching as he lightly tied her down.

Then Kvigr was in the saddle, and urged the beast into a quick walk...

The Jarl's great, bellowing voice could be heard over much the camp. "Where is that strumpet, Aewen?!"

---

All who heard him could tell that the Jarl was as enraged as a bull when someone gets too near his herd. Griss looked towards the longhouse and gulped; Heggr turned a stomach-sick pale shade of ash. If the woman wasn't found, things would not be pleasant around the camp for a long time.

When the men reported that every shed, lean-to, cellar and storage bin had been searched with no sign of the woman, the Jarl turned cold. He was worse when he did not say much. "Then you know he is in a killing mood," Griss thought uncomfortably. There was no point in giving excuses or apologies for their failure. The Jarl was implacable when he was angry.

"Search the area around the camp. If you can't find her there, spread out and comb the countryside," the Jarl said calmly and coolly.

Griss was put in charge of a group of ten men sent out to fan around the camp in ever-widening circles. Griss picked Heggr to accompany them. Heggr was almost worthless at tracking; a bear could leave an obvious trail and Heggr might not notice it. When it came to ransacking huts and cottages, though, Heggr was amazing. He could find every last turnip, parsnip, apple, ham, slab of bacon, keg of ale and mead, no matter how cleverly they had been hidden. Although Heggr would do them little good, Griss still liked to have the man with him. They had been together a long time, all the way back to the days of petty thievery and livestock stealing.

Everything close to the camp was searched, every place but... The cemetery! "Interesting," Griss thought. He had seen the woman talking to Kvigr shortly before the Jarl had called her to the longhouse. And Kvigr later took Uffi's body to be buried in the cemetery! Maybe the two of them...!

"Men! To the cemetery! Maybe we will find the woman there, loved up with that dog Kvigr!"

"Should we kill him on sight?" Heggr asked hopefully.

"No, the Jarl will want to deal with them himself. Take him alive!"

---

Kvigr urged his horse into a fast walk, Aewen's body dangling across the saddle in front of him. As nervous as he were, he couldn't stop his eyes from lingering on the soft curves of her body, outlined by the cloak. He never had an opportunity to be with a woman, only listened, elated and ashamed, to the soldiers ribald talk. Aewen was far more beautiful than anyone he had seen before. He felt a deep longing somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and trailed a hesitant, suddenly clammy hand along her spine and rump. Aewen lay as if dead.

Wistful thoughts ran through Kvigr's mind. What if, when he saves her, she would come to love him? Of course, Aewen was far above him on the social scale, but now, ruined and befouled, perhaps she will deign to notice his love and devotion?

Lulled by his daydreams, Kvigr was startled when two men rushed out of the thick bushes, swords at the ready. One seized the nag's reins and asked. "What is your name and business, pup?"

"I am Kvigr, and that is Uffi. He died this night." Kvigr replied, indicating Aewen's body in front of him. He was surprised how cool his voice sounded. "Hrani sent me to bury him, lest he stinks all over the camp."

One of the sentries nodded. "Hrani was here and warned us. You can go on, pup, but Sterki will go with you. He will show you the place and make sure you are up to no mischief."

Kvigr started to protest, his heart suddenly cold, but the leader had already vanished into the trees. Sterki, a dangerous-looking man with an angry livid scar, grinned at him mirthlessly. The scar across his face looked like a second toothless mouth, a sight that made Kvigr shiver.

"Come, laddie," beckoned the man and led the way over the hill, his brown hand firmly clutching the nag's harness. They went through a pine grove on a small hillock and descended down a steep slope into a ravine. The ground was soft there, and Kvigr noticed a number of small mounds, marked by stones, all around him.

"Get down and pick your place, laddie - the ground is cheap here," Sterki grinned again. When Kvigr complied, Sterki tied the horse's reins to a pine, sat on the ground, his back to a large boulder, and started filling his pipe. Kvigr knew he had to kill this man, it was the only way out. But Kvigr was an archer, and he doubted he could best Sterki with only a rusty knife he had. But there was also the spade...

Kvigr gripped the spade and approached the horse. Aewen was hanging there utterly still, like a dead body. Kvigr feigned to struggle with a knot that held the body in place, tightening it further instead. Then, he pleaded in a thin, hesitant voice, "Give me a hand here, please, Mister Sterki! I can't undo Hrani's knot."

Grinning even wider, Sterki made some unflattering comments about Kvigr's mental and physical abilities, as well as about the questionable virtue of his mother. Kvigr's jaw tightened. Now he felt no qualms about killing the man.

Sterki didn't waste his time untying the knot, but proceeded to cut the rope with a long, gleaming knife. When his back was turned, Kvigr brought the spade down on his head with all the force he could muster. Sterki fell down soundlessly, spilling his blood onto the green moss.

"Get up into the saddle, let us gallop away!" Kvigr cried to Aewen, snatching away the concealing cloak.

At this moment an arrow whizzed past his head. Several men were closing on him with drawn swords. They were surrounded. Aewen screamed. With his last sane thought, Kvigr pressed Uffi's knife into Aewen's hand.

"Take it; you may need it," he whispered. The knife disappeared beneath Aewen's clothes.

With a plea for forgiveness in her eyes, she stepped away from Kvigr, turned to the woods behind them and sped away.

"After her!" Griss cried, and two of the men separated from the party, chasing off in the direction which the girl had taken.

Kvigr's eyes gleamed with desperation as he assumed a defensive pose, attempting to fend off his attackers with the spade. The first to reach him was Griss, who, sword drawn, circled around Kvigr. Swinging at him with his spade, Kvigr came close to landing several blows, but Griss quickly darted out of his reach. The rest of the men soon caught up with him and were about to rush at Kvigr when Griss put his hand down, a signal not to attack.

"Come on, pup," Griss taunted, "let's see what the spade is good for besides digging your grave!"

The other men laughed as Kvigr swung once again but Griss kept just beyond his swings. The young man was quick, but was not an experienced swordsman like Griss. Griss was in no rush and knew that the constant wielding of the heavy spade would eventually tire his foe. Griss was obviously enjoying himself as he evaded Kvigr's strikes, toying with him, darting in here and now to deliver a minor cut to an arm, a cheek.

A panting Kvigr raised the spade once again. Griss ducked under the swinging spade and slashed at Kvigr's forearm, drawing more blood. The weapon fell out of the wounded man's hands with a crash.

"I should kill you!" Griss raised his sword and bore down upon the wounded man, slashing minor blows on first one arm, then the other. The blood was flowing freely from Kvigr's face, arms and chest as he groaned in pain. Kvigr teetered, grimacing, and Griss motioned for the other men to move forward. Soon Kvigr was thrown to the ground, his hands bound behind his back, a noosed rope around his neck.

From a safe vantage point against a tree, Heggr gibed, "You really messed up good, Griss! I don't think he can bury Uffi and Sterki now!"

"Not necessary," Griss smiled wickedly as he wiped the blood off his sword with a dirty rag and then sheathed the blade. Bending down and picking up the spade, he threw it to Heggr. "Here, you can dig one for all three of them!"

Heggr groaned as he wrinkled his nose in a distasteful expression and then shrugged.

"Heggr, we'll join you at the camp. You can take the horse back and get Uffi where we found him in the bushes. Dig the hole deep! We don't want any scavengers digging up the carrion. Downwind from the cemetery, those carcasses would stink us out!"

Turning his attention back to the prisoner, Griss nodded to one of the men. "You bind up his arm. We don't want him bleeding to death before we get back to camp. The Jarl probably has something real good in mind for him already. What do you think it will be, boy?" Griss turned his smirking face to Kvigr, but the young man was silent.

After Kvigr's worst wound was attended to, Griss and his remaining seven men began to march back to camp. Jarl Broggha was waiting for them in the large open area that he used when he called the men for assembly. Ignoring the bound Kvigr, he leveled his steely gaze on Griss.

"Where is the woman? Did any harm come to her?"

"Jarl," Griss inclined his head in a respectful bow, "no, the woman was not injured. She tried to escape and I sent two men after her. I expect they will be here shortly."

"I expect they will, too," the Jarl said menacingly, "or your head will soon be gracing a pike outside the door of my longhouse!"

"Aye, Jarl," Griss looked to the leader, "there will be no failure."

The Jarl nodded. "Now take this dog and put him in one of the sheds under heavy guard."

"Will you kill him soon, Jarl?" Griss asked, the eagerness showing in his voice.

"No," Broggha said slowly, "we are going to have a trial for him. His old friend Algeirr might want to stand up for him."

Griss shuddered. He knew exactly what the Jarl meant. Anyone who would dare say a good word about a man who had offended the Jarl would suffer the other man's own fate... maybe worse.

"When the woman is found..." the Jarl was smiling now, the kind of no-smile that didn't reach the eyes that all of Broggha's men had come to fear. "Bind her to the whipping post, over there. I am going to give her a flogging that she won't soon forget, and let it be a lesson to both her and Maleneth!"

The Jarl glanced towards the doorway of the longhouse, where Maleneth had been watching and listening.


	16. The Jarl's Justice

On the road near Morva Torch, morning of October 7, 1347.  
Written by Elfhild, Angmar and Gordis 

As soon as the dim predawn light filtered through the trees, Algeirr started his search for weapons hidden the previous evening by the accursed Tarks. He was in a foul mood, yesterday's disaster becoming more stinging with every hour that passed. And this tasty little morsel, this pretty wench... why hadn't they rolled her over right away, instead of quarreling like some silly pups? Stupid Griss... Blasted Tarks...

By ten o'clock Algeirr managed to find one knife and two swords. He hadn't found his own, though, and it maddened him. It was bad luck to lose your sword, no matter how, so the loss made him uneasy. But one sword was as good as another, Algeirr reasoned with himself, as all of them belonged to the Arthedain army and were made of sharp, gleaming tark steel.

Finally Algeirr decided it was time to go to the camp and introduce himself to Broggha. At least now he was well-armed, and had two horses, so it was not necessary to tell the Jarl about the unfortunate incident of yesterday.

Algeirr packed all the scattered belongings of his own and the other men's on a spare horse, and mounted the other one. He cast the last glance at Gunni's grave. Yesterday, Algeirr piled some stones on top of the body, building a small cairn. Gunni was killed in a fight, as a man should, so his soul must be well on its way to the White Mountain. The man was a brute and a fool, but now he was safe.

On his way, Algeirr mused idly about Uffi's fate. The wound looked bad, but a tark healer would have saved him. Only Algeirr doubted that one was available in Broggha's camp. The absence of Griss was equally disconcerting; the man promised to join him in the morning, but hadn't.

Soon he recognized the landmark Griss told him about - a huge fir-tree, leaning over the road. Algeirr noticed a wide track, branching from the main road and leading North. Resolutely, he turned the horses and rode towards Broggha's camp.

---

Aewen ran through the woods, darting around trees and leaping over fallen logs and brambles, her long legs making good distance. Her eyes darted from side to side, desperately surveying the horizon of her view. Surely there must be some place to hide from her pursuers! She heard them behind her, crashing through the underbrush, their rough voices shouting, their breath coming hard and heavy.

Though she ran and ran, still she was not quick enough, for when her legs began to weary, they quickly gained upon her. When one of the men came up beside her, seizing her, she kicked and struggled, but soon his fellow came to his assistance, and quickly had her arms bound behind her back. Laughing and taunting her with threats, the two men led her back towards the way the others had gone.

It was the middle of the morning when three arrived at Broggha's camp. Aewen swallowed hard when she saw that familiar sight. She tried to bolster up her courage, but the thoughts of Broggha's wrath made her quake in her shoes. They passed the leering sentinels and went further down the path towards the longhouse. A goodly number of men were gathered about in the assembly area, and towering above them all stood the massive hulking form of the Jarl. Aewen's whole body quivered in dread.

Broggha looked in her direction, and his angry face flushed a livid red. In his hand was a medium-length, one-strand whip.

"Take her to the whipping post!" he bellowed.

Soon the terrified Aewen found herself being dragged in the direction of the pole, upon which she had seen many men punished for disobedience. Sometimes the beatings were light ones; at other times, the weals were deep and bloody; and occasionally, a man was flogged to death. Almost idly, she wondered which hers would be. Never before had he punished her in public! Always before, he satisfied his malice in the longhouse, away from the gaze of onlookers.

Trembling with rage, the Jarl was soon upon her, quickly untying her hands. Before she could realize what was happening, he had flung off her cloak, hoisted her skirts up and lifted her dress aloft. Taking the rope which had previously bound her hands behind her back, Broggha yanked her arms up and tied her wrists together, winding the rope about the iron ring which was used to hold prisoners securely as they were being punished. Her face pressed up against the wooden pole; her feet danced helplessly about its base. She turned her head to the side and saw Malaneth among the crowd which had gathered to watch. The woman's face was pale and she looked on in horror.

"Please, no!" Aewen wailed.

"You will get what you deserve, wench!" Broggha snarled as he brought the whip down upon her back. A scream tore itself out of Aewen's mouth.

Again and again, the lashes rained down upon her back as she screamed and wailed and begged for mercy, the tears streaming down her face, her rapid breathing threatening to choke her. The cool autumn air chilled the blood on the scratches caused where the whip-marks crisscrossed across her back, but her skin was so on fire and the strikes of the whip came so fast that she scarcely differentiated between the sensations of hot and cold.

At last the grueling ordeal was over, and Aewen limply slumped against the pole, her chest heaving with her panting breaths and soft sobs.

Pulling her head back by her hair, Broggha forced her to gaze up into his face. "You will never try a trick like that again, wench!"

Cut from her bindings, Aewen slumped to the ground, gasping and panting.

"Get up, wench!" Broggha toed her arm with the tip of his boot. "Cover yourself and go back in the house! This little chastisement does not excuse you from preparing my supper tonight!"

The woman struggled to her feet, grasping her garments to her bosom. As the men jeered and called to her, she began stumbling away to the longhouse.

Malaneth looked fearfully to the Jarl. "May I be allowed to help her?" Broggha nodded his permission. Soon Malaneth's hands were upon the woman's shoulders, helping to support her.

Broggha crossed the assembly field as his men followed him. Taking his seat on his fur-lined "throne" - a giant log carved out in the shape of a chair - he looked over the gathered men. Excited over just seeing a whipping, they were certain that there would be more entertaining things to follow.

"Men, bring the felon before me so that he may receive justice!"

The men laughed at that. Broggha's sense of justice was always certain to appeal to their baser tastes. The men pressed closer towards Broggha's throne. Soon the well-trussed Kvigr stood before the Jarl. His garments stiff with gore, his wounded arm bound with a blood-soaked bandage, the young man's face was pale, his eyes bright, perhaps a sign of an impending fever.

"You are brought before me charged with the crimes of murdering an innocent man with malice aforethought and the kidnapping of one of my thralls. What do you have to say in your behalf?" The sound of the Jarl's fingers tapping on the arm of his log throne sounded like drums in Kvigr's brain.

"I have nothing to say," Kvigr said, little defiance in his voice, for it was true - he had slain Sterki. "But I did not plan it ahead of time," was all he could think of to say in his own defense.

"Griss, come forward. You were in charge of the rescue party." A low murmur of laughter rose up from the crowd of men. "Tell us what you saw."

Grinning slightly, Griss stepped forward and bowed. "Poor Sterki was lying there as dead as a butchered hog, his brains smashed in." Griss forced his face into a solemn look and pulled a dirty handkerchief from his left sleeve and brought it to his eyes. "Truly a sad sight." Griss dabbed an unseen tear from his eyes as he tried to conjure up a sob but failed. The men howled in laughter as Griss turned back to them and grinned broadly. "As I said, there the deceased was, an oozing puddle of brains around his head. Aewen was there, embracing her little rooster right near the body of poor Sterki." That wasn't true, but it sounded good and added to the drama. "He is as guilty as a dog caught in the act of sucking eggs!"

"Griss, this court is grateful for your truthful testimony. You may take your place back amongst the men." The Jarl did not even try to hide his chuckle. "Obviously Kvigr has committed two crimes - one, a base murder; the other the abduction of a woman for unwholesome deeds." The men's laughter rose in a crescendo, some of the men slapping their legs as tears came to their faces.

Griss backed away into the crowd, an expression of proud amusement on his face. The man beside him whispered, "You should have been a play actor!"

"It is nothing, I tell you. Just natural talent," Griss grinned, to which the laughing man slapped him on the back.

"Before this court pronounces judgment," the Jarl intoned in a mock serious voice, "the accused is allowed a witness to his character. Should there be any valid argument that can be brought forward, now is the time to speak." The Jarl looked around the throng but no one stood up.

Griss caught sight of Algeirr in the crowd. Smirking, he spoke up. "This is Algeirr, a good friend of the felon Kvigr."

"Algeirr, come forward," Broggha's voice boomed.

---

When Algeirr reached the camp, the sentries were obviously expecting him. They let Algeirr in without questions and took him directly to the Jarl. Algeirr was impressed by the man's sheer bulk, but even more by his piercing blue eyes beneath the bristling red brows. The Jarl seemed pleased to meet him, but some dangerous flicker in his eyes when he looked at Algeirr and the predatory grin, plastered on his lips, warned Algeirr of the impending danger.

The mercenary found himself tensing, as before a battle, and stood not far from the Jarl, surveying the scene with wary eyes. A large crowd was gathered in the clearing, cheering and hooting as a naked woman was being flogged by the Jarl himself. In the crowd, Algeirr noticed the ashen-pale Meldun, but couldn't see any of his other men. Meldun caught his eyes and drew his hand across his throat in warning. Algeirr swallowed, but his wooden face showed nothing of the panic rising in his heart.

Soon, Algeirr's puzzlement was over. The man who was brought before Broggha's throne for trial was no other than the pale, but defiant Kvigr, his hands bound behind his back and a bleeding wound on his arm.

"What have you done, stupid, stupid pup?" thought Algeirr dismally.

The charges were deadly: murdering of one of Broggha's men and kidnapping of one of Broggha's own women. Algeirr felt cold dread creeping along his spine when he heard Griss's testimony. One look at the Jarl's face told him, that whatever Kvigr's reasons might have been, there would be no mercy.

At this moment, the Jarl intoned, mocking a standard Tark trial. "Before this court pronounces judgment, the accused is allowed a witness to his character. Should there be any valid argument that can be brought forward, now is the time to speak." Then the Jarl's fierce blue eyes caught Algeirr's, and he beckoned.

"Algeirr, come forward," his voice boomed.

The mercenary, his long face unreadable, stepped out of the throng and stood before the Jarl looking unflinchingly into his blue eyes.

"What have you to say?" the Jarl asked, his voice surprisingly smooth.

"This Kvigr here has always been a stupid pup, weak and silly. I was not even going to bring him to you, my Jarl, but let him go home to his dirty village to milk cows. He was never of any use. Do what you want with him, I can't care less."

Algeirr heard Kvigr gasp in disbelief behind his back, but he didn't turn to look. The mercenary knew, that, over the years, Kvigr has grown attached to him, as he would to a second father. Algeirr had a soft spot for the bright lad and liked his liveliness and invariably cheerful mood. But that was over now, over and done with. Kvigr was as good as dead, and Algeirr had no wish to follow him to Njamo.

Jarl Broggha nodded solemnly to the witness Algierr and then stood up.

"Are there any other witnesses who are unknown to this court, who might have any words to say, either as evidence or as a witness to this man's innocence?"

The Jarl waited, looking around the assembly, and the faces that he saw resembled grinning wolves which had surrounded a victim.

"There being none, it is time for this court to pass judgment upon the accused."

The crowd grew deafly silent and the men's lust for blood was obvious on their faces. Griss licked his lips in anticipation, while Heggr, in his enthusiasm, forgot for a few moments the pain in his teeth.

"Because of the gravity of the crimes - sedition and rebellion, the murder of an honorable warrior, and the abduction of a member of my household - the punishment must be in keeping with the seriousness of the offenses." All knew the harshness of Broggha's judgments. Now, though, in these days before he assumed his position on King Tarnendur's council, he determined that he would establish an even fiercer reputation and make any man who sought to oppose him think twice before he did. The tension was palpable as the men waited to hear the nature of the punishment. They sensed that this execution would be something quite out of the ordinary and very memorable.

"Upon the morning of October 8 of this year, the prisoner is to be taken to the place of execution, where he will be first hanged by the neck; then while still alive, he is to be emasculated and his entrails extracted, the parts being delivered over to the fire where they will be consumed before his eyes. Then he is to be quartered and beheaded, his head being delivered to his village of birth, and the sections sent to the villages closest to the northern, southern, eastern and western borders of Rhudaur."

The crowd roared its approval.

Inside the longhouse, Aewen screamed.


	17. The Knife in the Dark

Cameth Brin, evening of October 7.  
Written by Gordis 

Gimilbeth didn't cast her spell the first night, but postponed it to the next.

In the evening of the fateful day when she learned of the Council's decision, she had more time to read the black book, and she became aware that she lacked important things needed to cast the chosen spell. A dagger she had, as most of the high-born ladies did in such troubled times. She didn't have black candles, but settled to paint the ordinary ones on the surface, using the kohl cream she usually prepared for her make-up.

But there were worse things: she needed three frogs and a black cat to kill during the ritual. The cat, as Gimilbeth found out to her immense relief, could be substituted by a black cockerel. Gimilbeth doubted that she could ever kill a cat, even if a kingdom were at stake. She thought she could manage to kill the frogs, though.

Fortunately it was raining at midday on the Seventh of Narbeleth, so Gimilbeth caught the three frogs in the garden herself. She had sent Nimraen, her Gondorian maid, to the market to buy the black cockerel. The faithful maid, hearing this strange request, managed not to flinch, but Gimilbeth was sure that now loose tongues would start wagging with renewed vigor.

By the evening, everything was neatly arranged in Gimilbeth's still-room in the Palace basement. At eleven, Gimilbeth dismissed her maids for the night, and, dressed only in her thin silken shift and a heavy cloak, descended to the still-room.

The room was cool and dark, filled with the sweet scent of herbs. A drying rack hung from the rafters. The large marble table in the middle of the oblong room served as a workspace - it was now empty, but for the nine candles. Another table by the wall contained the still for distilling potions, a mortar and pestles for grinding, a balance, silver and wooden bowls and plates for sorting and mixing of herbs. The shelves lining the walls displayed a collection of jars and bottles with tinctures and oils - all neatly labeled by Gimilbeth's own hand. The fire in the corner was banked low.

Gimilbeth felt nervous and elated. The little black book opened a whole new world to her, a dangerous and exiting world full of shadow and power, a world where her ancestors on the mother's side felt at home.

She thought of her mother and of Inzilbeth's grief and shock if she could see her daughter now. Inzilbeth was one of the Faithful, or had become one, once she met Tarnendur.

But what about her grandmother, Lady Serinde? The black book was ancient, but it contained lots of more recent marginal notes and additions made in different hands. Gimilbeth was shocked when she recognized her grandmother's hand, Serinde's unmistakable flowery script. So Serinde practiced Black Magick, perhaps she had even been initiated in a Black Temple...

Gimilbeth shivered imagining her haughty noble grandmother lying all naked on a black altar, lit by nine candles, while the black- robed priest bathed her body in blood. Was it human sacrifice? Gimilbeth supposed so. She knew that even with the Great Temple destroyed, dark rites hadn't stopped at Umbar.

What a pity she hadn't been initiated when she still lived there! But it couldn't be remedied now. There were no black altars in Rhudaur and no Dark priests to conduct the rites and give her a new sacred name in the Dark Tongue, the name to be kept forever secret. Now anyone could weave a counter-spell against her, as her names were known to many. She only hoped there was nobody familiar with Black Arts in Broggha's surroundings.

Gimilbeth lit the Nine candles on the stone table and discarded her heavy cloak. The room was cold and she shivered in her thin shift. Cringing inwardly, she took out her dagger and killed the three frogs, intoning the customary prayer to the Dark Lord and spilling blood over her hands and bosom. Then she took the trussed cockerel and slit its throat, intoning Broggha's name and the spell that would reach him over the leagues.

Gimilbeth's heart pounded wildly and her fingers trembled. She started to feel dizzy, the smell of blood cloying and revolting in her nostrils. She felt her mind expanding and making contact with another...The intensity of anguish and hate in this other mind was like a physical blow...Her vision dimmed, the room disappeared, only the Nine lights floated in the darkness...

Swaying on her feet in exhaustion, Gimilbeth raised the dagger and plunged it downward into the cockerel's breast, while crying out the last words of the spell.

She could have sworn she felt someone's fingers around the hilt beneath her own.

* * *

Morva Torch, Evening of October 7, 1347  
Written by Elfhild

At last evening had come, and night had brought an end to the weary day. With the help of Malaneth, Aewen somehow managed to do all her tasks, the preparing and serving of the meal and the cleaning up afterwards. Her back throbbed with a fury and every movement was agony.

But her duties were not over. Though she still suffered from the beating, Broggha would not grant her any mercy when he dominated her with his vicious passions, and he was even harsher with her than usual. When he had finished his brutal assault, she lay beside him, sobbing into the rough coverlet on the straw-filled mattress. While the heartless monster slipped off into the serenity of sated lust, Aewen cried out her anguish, gasping until she thought she might die of suffocation. At last the fit of weeping had passed, and she collapsed in exhaustion, not moving for some time and hardly daring to breathe.

She had such hopes of escape, and now she was even more trapped and miserable than ever! True, it was foolish even to consider escaping, especially with a man she did not even know. Kvigr could just have easily used her a while for his pleasure, and then killed her, disposing of the body somewhere in the woods. No one would have missed her for long.

Whether Kvigr's intentions had been pure or not, she would never know now, because the young man had been sentenced to die. The Jarl would not even grant Kvigr mercy by giving him a speedy end, but insisted on prolonging the torture until at last death claimed the poor fellow. Aewen's fist clenched the coverlet. Broggha was a cruel tyrant, ruthless and treacherous, a truly evil man! Oh, how she wished that someone would kill him!

Then the thought came to her √ "Perhaps I should do the deed..."

But what was she thinking? Surely he would kill her this time if he caught her attempting such madness!

She felt her arms reach up, and then her hands lifting her torso from the bed. Slowly, she rose into a kneeling position beside the prone form of the sleeping man. Her heart began to pound wildly and her fingers started to tremble. There the Jarl was, his eyes closed in peaceful repose, his chest rising and falling, his lips twitching foolishly as he snored loudly.

What was she doing? Had she gone mad? It was as though someone else was controlling her mind, her body! One leg slid from the mattress and then the other followed it as she rose to her feet. Her heart was beating so fast that she could barely concentrate. She felt herself moving towards her cloak, where she had hidden the knife that Kvigr had thrust into her hands in the midst of the desperate fight. Soon it was in her hand once again.

Turning, Aewen looked towards the sleeping man. Everything in the long-house was still as a tomb; the fire grew low and silent in the brazier. Her stilted movements were almost lazy as she approached him, the knife-hilt held tightly in her clammy palm, her knuckles growing white from her relentless grip.

Almost before she had realized what had happened, Aewen found herself standing beside the little bed, the knife raised above the Jarl's heart.

She swore she felt the pressure of an invisible hand upon her forearm as she brought the sharp blade downward.

* * *

Morva Torch, night of October 7, 1347  
Written by Angmar

The throngs cheered and called out his name as Broggha made his triumphant entry into Cameth Brin. His steed was resplendent with its fine leather bridle and saddle, the caparison hanging down gracefully over the horse's haunches. The streets were narrow thoroughfares which were choked with dust in the summer and mud-filled morasses in the rain.

Though none of his men were accomplished musicians, still their horns rang out, impressive though discordant. The drummers kept up a constant rhythm that throbbed to the pace of a human heartbeat. The sound intensified as the procession turned a corner. Broggha beamed and waved as the crowd shouted out his accolades.

He turned towards the right and saw Aewen among the crowd. Her lips were turned up in a blood-covered smile.

"No!" he cried, waking up immediately to see the flash of firelight on a knife poised above him. He did not move quickly enough, though. Rolling his body to the side, he bellowed in pain as the fiery agony of the knife cut a bloody path across his shoulder blade and back.

Furious and in pain, he rolled off the bed and on his feet. His back felt as though a fiery serpent had crawled across it, and his blood dripped down over his back and onto the floor. The woman backed away from him, her knife gripped tightly in her hand and thrust forward.

"Give it to me, Aewen!" he commanded.

"No, no!" Her eyes looked feral in the light of the brazier.

He rushed towards the woman, easily dodging her misdirected attempts, and grasped her small wrist in his great paw, wincing as his wounded side clutched her shoulder. Bearing down his great strength, he heard the crunch of bone as he viciously shook her wrist back and forth. The knife thudded with a doleful sound on the floor. Broggha quickly released the woman, hurling her back on the bed as he bent down and picked up the knife.

"I should kill you!" he roared as he walked to the brazier. The knife was old, uncared-for and rusty, and as he held the blade to the fire, some of the fragments of rust burnt off. Still, when he had finished, the knife's blade burnt red.

He bent over Aewen and looked into her terrified eyes.

"You will never try to kill me again!"

She screamed as she felt the flat part of the fiery metal singe a trail between her breasts. By the time he had finished branding her, she had swooned. He tossed the knife into the brazier and walked to the door. Opening it, he shouted into the night, "Men! Hasten to me! I have been wounded!"

The Jarl's angry roars of pain and rage had awakened the whole camp. Sleeping off the night's drunkenness, many men awoke confused. Thinking that the camp was under attack, they rushed to grab swords, axes and clubs, only to feel foolish when they discovered their mistake.

Griss, in spite of the ale he had consumed, had not slept well, and was one of the first to reach the Jarl. He found the leader still on his feet, in spite of the blood which he had lost. Broggha sat down on a bench as Malaneth brought wet cloths and pressed them against the torn flesh on his back.

"Summon the shaman!" Broggha ordered, and two men rushed off to fetch the medicine man. Soon they returned with the grinning little man, who immediately went to the Jarl. Prying and peering at Broggha's shoulder and back, the little man cackled and muttered a spell. Packing the deepest wound with a wad of cloth holding a mixture of bear fat and herbs, the shaman then bound Broggha's back. Imploring the strength of the bear to aid in the healing, the old man touched the necklace of teeth around his neck. The Jarl sat back on his bench and called for a tankard of ale.

Looking towards the bed, he harshly bit out, "Is the woman still alive?"

"My lord, yes," Malaneth replied, "but she fell into a swoon from which she has not awakened." Aewen, who had been covered by Malaneth, lay soundless upon the bed, her face ashen.

"See to her, old man," the Jarl barked out gruffly.

As Malaneth held the lantern over the bed, the old man turned back the cover. Looking up, the light of the lantern making his eyes glow with some fell lustre, he cackled, "A perfect dagger mark!" The old man began dancing about the bed, swaying and chortling, and babbling gibberish.

Malaneth felt sick to her stomach when she again saw the hideous burn between Aewen's breasts.

"Will she live?" Malaneth asked gravely.

"If my dance pleases the spirits that dwell in the earth, the air, the fire and the water, she will, but if not, she won't!" the old man laughed and merrily danced about the room as he mumbled.

"Her wrist is terribly swollen!" Malaneth gasped.

"Just set the break, then splint the wrist and bind it. One of the men can surely attend to that matter. You don't need a shaman for something so simple as that!" The old man exclaimed as he concluded his dance with a fierce roar, flailing the air with a stick carved with magic signs and the image of a bear.

He raced back to the table where he had left his herbs and jars. Coating the sacred magic stick in the ointment, he rubbed it over the seared flesh on the woman's chest, and with Malaneth's assistance, he applied a light dressing on the wound.

Griss wondered if they were only patching the woman up so she could be brought before the Jarl's justice. He pondered whether the Jarl would execute a woman or not, a practice which was seldom done. Though she had been marred by her ordeal, still her face was left beautiful. "It would be a shame to kill her," he thought.

One of the workman who had been laboring all night on building the gibbet was escorted into the hall.

"Jarl," he bowed - then wondered if he should address him by the title of "my lord" - "the gibbet will be completed by dawn."

"Let me know when it is finished," Broggha said, adding, "Aewen will watch the death of her lover, if she has to be tied to a chair!"

Malaneth looked sadly down at her friend, and wished that she had been successful in her attempts to kill the brute.


	18. Scream in the Woods

On the road to Eryndil's father's thanehold, North of Morva Torch.  
Just before midnight, October 7 1347  
Written by Rian 

Ceruvar, having obtained Eryndil's permission to bring out his harp, carried it over to where Caelen was huddled next to her brother, taking his time and making sure his approach was seen by her so as to not startle her. He bowed and addressed her respectfully.

"My lady, we are soldiers, fighting to protect home and family and things of beauty that evil would mar, were it left unchecked. While we are far afield, music reminds us of these things, and encourages and sustains us. Therefore I respectfully ask your permission to play for the men, though it is only with a soldier's rough hand on the strings."

Callon, sure that his sister would still be too traumatized to answer the man, started to reply, but to his surprise, his sister checked him.

"I ... I ..." She gathered her courage and forced herself to answer. "Far be it from me to check any of your well-earned pleasures," she answered with only a slight tremor in her voice. Noticing how he had to lean in closer to hear her voice, which was far weaker than normal, she clenched her fists and shook herself slightly, forcing herself to speak up. "Please feel free to play for the men. I owe you my life for your service to home and King; please don't let my presence check your pleasures ..."

Her voice faltered, and a cold wave of fear shot through her body as she thought of the pleasures that the brigands had wanted to take with her. "No, no, they will not win!" she thought to herself angrily, and forced herself to continue.

"I mean, please do whatever you would do normally - I don't want to hinder you in any way, especially after all you have done for my brother and me. But I thank you for your courtesy in asking my permission."

She stopped awkwardly, angry at her uncouthness in front of this man, but she didn't know what else to say and thought more words would only make it worse.

Ceruvar, seeing and understanding her distress, saw the heart behind the halting, awkward words and understood the uncouthness was due to her recent trauma. He bowed again, thanking her graciously, and returned to the men.

"Good for you, Caelie!" whispered her brother. "Don't let those brigands win! Fight it and come back! I know you're strong - stronger than those cowards are. To attack a woman!" He stopped, too angry for further words.

His sister, exhausted, leaned back against him, and he covered her protectively with his cloak. They listened to Ceruvar's playing, which was far better than his modesty had claimed, and their bodies slowly relaxed as the music flowed around them, blending with the night noises. One of the men started singing along softly as Ceruvar started another melody. His voice followed the melody at first, then wove in and out and all around it in a merry dance as the melody grew more lively. As he and Ceruvar finished with a flourish, the men laughed and clapped softly, complementing the two musicians on their skill.

Eryndil laughed along with his men. "If you two keep that up, you'll have the very trees dancing!" he teased. "But I'm afraid that we're too far afield for dancing right now, and it's getting late - why don't you finish up with a quieter piece, and then we'll draw for first watch."

Ceruvar nodded with a smile, tuned a few strings to change the harp to a minor key, and started playing an ancient and beautiful lullaby. Callon felt his sister sigh and slowly relax into his body.

Suddenly the night was rent with a terrible scream.

Caelen's heart leapt into her throat. She felt she couldn't breathe, she couldn't see - all she could feel were cold hands, evil hands, grasping and pawing and hurting her, touching and rending and fouling her innermost body and soul, pulling her down to hideous depths... She began frantically fighting to get away from the arms...

Callon gasped and felt his body go cold all over. His nerves and muscles went numb; his sight blurred. He felt something close to him struggling and knew in the back of his mind that he needed to hold on to it tightly, because it was precious and he had to protect it, but it was as if he was watching his body instead of commanding it, and his arms stayed limp and lifeless. He suddenly felt the cold air against his chest, and saw though a mist the precious thing escaping. Stumbling to his feet, he grabbed at it - at - wait, his sister! what was wrong with him?! - and managed to catch the edge of the cloak that he had fastened around her.

Caelen screamed again and fought like a wildcat to get away, but her brother had his senses back now, and he wrapped his arms tight around her from behind, pinning down her arms. "Caelen, it's me! It's Callon, your brother! Don't fight, sweetheart, it's ok now," he urged into her ear, and then caught her as she collapsed.

* * *

North of Morva Torch, Night of October 7, 1347  
Written by Angmar

The only sound to disturb the silence of night was the distant hooting of an owl as the small party of horsemen rode along the trail. Riding beside the standard bearer who proudly held aloft the staff of the black and red Angmarian banner, a horseman called out a halt and drew rein. The other men silently regarded him as the chief ambassador stopped his horse and listened. There had been a shifting of the forces of magic. Someone had called upon the same power that he himself had invoked so many times.

"A dabbler," he thought, amused. "A mere novice who seeks to call upon that which he does not even understand." He began to visualize a distant form around whose body rose the smell of blood, sticky-sweet and cloying. "Who is this untaught person who dares to call upon the ancient arts?" More importantly, for what was this unknown person striving? A look of anger convulsed his handsome features.

The image of a dagger... the vision took firmer shape in his mind. Old and rusty... Suddenly it was smeared with blood. He tried to see the murky image in his mind more clearly... at whom was the dagger directed?

Then the veil parted and instantly he could see a huge, tall red-bearded man - Broggha! The dagger portended death. The man unsheathed the sword at his belt and drew a symbolic circle about his horse and himself. He began to chant in an ancient, archaic tongue as he sliced deeply across his left forefinger and let the blood drip over the ring that glowed on his right hand.

"Not by my power, which is nothing, but by the power of the Darkness, which is all and from which all things came, I call upon the Two Lords of Darkness!"

He waited for a few moments until he felt the power infuse his being, permeating each component of his body's makeup and filling him with the energized malice that, when fully invoked, could turn a rational man mad.

"I beseech the Mighty Ones to halt the flight of the dagger in its path and to ward with protection the one for whom the blade was intended!"

At that moment, Broggha rolled away from the dagger that had been meant for his heart. Through the swirling ethers, the ambassador heard the piercing shriek of a woman, and sensed the melting of metal as the dagger was consumed in a bright flame. The dark cloaked figure screamed his anger into the night, a dreadful sound which made the blood run cold.

He had been almost too late! If he had not sensed this attack and stilled the magic which had unleashed it, all of his plans would have been for naught.

Now, he concentrated his power towards the doer of the deed. His gleaming black steed pawed the ground, winding the night air. The stallion had caught the scent of a mare in heat, her smell borne along by the night air. The stallion's eagerness was stilled with a soft word from his master. Such attunement to the beasts around him brought a comfort and was often quite useful.

The man listened as the owl called again. Down below the bird, a small mouse scampered along the ground as it searched the rich harvest of autumn seeds. The owl dipped down and caught it in his claws and flew back to his perch, where he tore the small creature to tattered fragments of bleeding flesh with his beak. In the man's mind, he could see the bits of fur, the blood and entrails as the owl relished his meal.

The man smiled as the blood-covered image of a woman - the nebulous vapor of a crown suspended in the mist above her head - materialized in his mind.

"A woman," he chuckled, "but who is she?" He would discover her identity, and when he did, she would pay for this audacity!

* * *

Cameth Brin, night of October 7, 1347  
Written by Gordis

Power flowed so forcefully through Gimilbeth's body that it slammed her against the wall. Her thoughts in disarray, her vision dimmed, she couldn't recall the last incantation, aimed to tear her mind free from the contact with another.

Gimilbeth crawled back to the table and groped blindly for the book, but her fingers, sticky with blood, only met the stone and the bodies of the frogs. Her mind was flooded with paralyzing fear and unbearable anguish.

Suddenly the pain came. She felt her right hand crushed by invisible fingers, then the skin between her breasts started burning, as if scorched by a hot iron.

Tears ran down her cheeks and she moaned in pain, clutching her bosom, but the pain only intensified. The Nine lights were dancing before her eyes in a spinning circle. With a shrill cry Gimilbeth collapsed on the cold stone floor.

When, an hour later, she resurfaced from a pool of murky darkness, it took her a few minutes to realize that the last wave of pain had left her body. She got to her feet. The candles were still burning and by their light she was able to read aloud the last spell. Only then she allowed herself to relax.

She examined her breasts. The skin was unblemished and the breastbone seemed whole as well. Puzzled and relieved, Gimilbeth decided to dwell on the problem later. Now she took off her blood-stained shift, tore a clean strip from the hem and dipped it in a kettle of warm water over the brazier. Using the wet cloth as a sponge, she carefully washed away all the blood from her face, body and hands. Then she swept the table and flung the bloody rags, carcasses of the frogs and the dead cockerel into the fire and watched as they burned, sitting naked on a stool by the fire.

The pain had been bad, but it seemed to her that the spell must have worked. Over leagues and leagues of forest, over swift streams and broken crags she had reached the dirty Barbarian in his lair. Now Broggha was dead, and that alone was worth all the suffering.

The corners of Gimilbeth's lips slowly turned up in a smile. The welcome heat was warming her frozen body. The next time she would be better prepared. The next time she would learn all the spells by heart, she would never forget a single word, whatever happened. That there would be a next time, Gimilbeth had not a slightest doubt.

She had tasted Power and, though seasoned with pain, its taste was sweet.

* * *

Morva Torch, Night of October 7-8, 1347  
Written by Elfhild

Thankfully, Aewen remained unconscious for the duration of the old shaman's dance, for surely a sight would have only frightened her even more. When she did awake, it was to the sound of screams. Vaguely, she wondered who was screaming. Then she realized it was herself.

One of the Jarl's men was holding her down by her shoulder and arm on the side opposite to her broken wrist, while the other was setting the bone. Shrieking, she struggled and writhed in pain as her bones were pulled back in place. Though the night was chill and, despite the brazier's fires, the long-house was cool, Aewen broke out into a sweat as a raging fire raced over her naked body. The agony was too much for her to bear and once again she fell into a swoon.

It was near dawn when she awoke again, her mouth parched with thirst. Her wrist was splinted and bound up tightly, and the ointments upon her brand were greasy, the sheet clinging to them. Where the skin had been seared the most, she felt the least pain, for the intensity of the burn had squelched the feeling in her skin. However, the edges where the heat had not been so great burnt as though a fire had been kindled within her flesh. All her body was burdened with weariness and her poor, mangled wrist was aching.

"Water," she moaned weakly, and Malaneth, who had been keeping a restless vigil, quickly fetched her a draught, holding the cool liquid up to her lips.

Aewen wearily recalled all of the night's events. Had she gone mad? Truly it was folly to attempt to kill the Jarl, and she had paid dearly! What had possessed her? She had wondered that at the time the strange urgings had come over her, and she wondered it even now.

Possessed... she had certainly acted as though some fell spirit had taken over her body and moved it about without her consent. But such thoughts were absurd. It was she who was responsible for her own actions, and her misfortune could not be blamed upon anyone but her and her futile attempt to escape.


	19. The Rangers

October 8, 1347, just after dawn - several leagues north of Morva Torch  
Written by Valandil 

As his men broke camp, Eryndil stood off by himself, surveying what he could see of the sky in the growing light as the sun slowly rose.

Their journey so far had been a bit slower than he had hoped for - but the terrain was rugged. The first night his men had been fresh, and he had hoped for a full day's march through the night - and at least a half day's distance of four leagues. Yet they had only made between 2 and 3 leagues. Yesterday, another 5 or 6 - but if there were to be any pursuit, it could only begin today at the soonest - and would be a weak pursuit at that. So last night, when Ceruvar had brought forth his harp, Eryndil had not objected, as he had on the stops of the previous night.

And then had come the scream.

Eryndil's own men had huddled together in fear - he had even felt the fear himself. How could a man not, with the sound of that thing. They had spoken on for perhaps hours in hushed whispers - about things like "Mewlips" and "Vampires" and other such subjects of old tales almost forgotten.

This morning, all seemed well-rested and refreshed - even Callon and Caelen. But beneath it, everyone still seemed a bit tense and shaken up. Nonetheless, they should make better time today - and tomorrow should bring them to their intended destination.

A part of him still debated within himself his intended course of action - but no, it would be best. Especially after that scream. He could be sure to send his charges off to relative safety, while he tried to cover for them. He straightened up and called for Narwaith. When the man came, he drew him aside and spoke with him in hushed tones.

"Narwaith, I want you to take Callon and Caelen - and Gwaerod - on to Duinand. Choose three men, none from our thane-hold, save yourself. And take at least one of our two other "city boys". Go straight north all day today - then tomorrow straight for Duinand. Go to the Thane there and request a soldier's winter lodging for yourself, your men and claim these," he indicated the brother and sister, "as your servants."

"Further, do not mention my name - and take heed that you not be recognized - I think few enough in my father's household would know you. Understood?"

Narwaith nodded in acknowledgement.

"Good! I wish to play my father a little trick. But meanwhile, cover your tracks for the first league today, and the first half league tomorrow, when you change your direction to the northwest. The rest of us will backtrack to erase what little trace we've left on rocky paths - and to guard against pursuit - or else to lead it astray. We should join you within three days of your arrival there."

His plans discharged, Eryndil called the whole company together and announced, "We're splitting up."

---

Departing with seven of his men from Callon, Caelen, and the remainder of his men who would escort them to Duinand, Eryndil set his course due south, back-tracking their path from the previous day. He and his men took great care to leave no trace of their passing - and to disrupt whatever signs of their passage from the day before had been left behind, by man or by horse.

Eryndil doubted greatly that the men he had left behind would have the spirit to give chase - even if they managed to quickly find their weapons. Nor did he expect that Broggha would send troops after him - since he would essentially have a two-day start, with little or no trail to follow.

Still - he was a man inclined to take precautions, by nature and by profession. If he had taken greater precautions than necessary nine times - they might be needful and save his life on the tenth. There was no need to change that habit now.

So south they went, through most of the morning. At last they came to the place he had sought. Ahead of them, their former path went downward between two banks, or clefts, that rose on either side. He sent Norumar with two men to the left, while he took the other four with him to the right. The two parties advanced on - in sight of each other, but screened from view of the pass by the trees and the dropping off of the land. At last they came to the south end of the clefts, where they overlooked the approach to the south, side-by-side.

If there would be a pursuit, this would be the place to halt it - or at least to slow it. Both parties had a commanding view of the south, but they could remain concealed from below. Yet they could see, and signal to, one another. They were at least 30 rangar above the ground beneath them, and little more than half a furlong apart.

All below them was still, so the men settled in to rest and to wait. They drew forth provisions from their packs for a light lunch, and set turns to watch, while Ceruvar explored the drop toward the pass below them. If a message by word of mouth were required, it would fall to him to carry it, so he must choose his quickest path.

As they waited, the sky began to darken. Clouds had begun to form, and to thicken, turning a deep, dark grey. At last the clouds burst into a cold autumn rain.

Eryndil was elated. This would ruin any chance of them being tracked. He waited only long enough to ensure that the rain would hold out for a time. Then he signaled Norumar and his men to back-track to the north again, and to meet him where the path rose up to them - the place where they had separated just hours earlier.

By the time they all reached this spot, Eryndil had determined his next course of action. They would now turn northeast, rather than northwest to Duinand. There was an inn on the road about 2-3 leagues that way from here. False hints dropped there would satisfy the curious than "Taurenol" had gone back to the Ettenmoors for the winter - or to some other place. Feigned "carelessness" about the marks of their current route would further ensure this (so they took great care to leave deep tracks in what mud they could) - and divert attention from Duinand - their true eventual destination.

Besides - the inn was on the road east of last night's camp. He might find out more about that scream - since it seemed to come out of the east.

* * *

Camglas at Ostinand - October 8, 1347  
Written by Valandil

Camglas stood looking out the window at the storm clouds that had gathered to the south. "Dark clouds over Rhudaur, sure enough," he thought to himself. For lately this subject had been much on his mind. Only thoughts of dark clouds besides the ones that only brought rain.

"Snow ... the next time," he said as he turned back to his work.

He was in a small room in the southeast corner of his old manor home, on the second storey above the ground. The harvest had come in all across his thane-hold, and his reeves had brought their reports from all the householders on his land.

Harvest-wise, it had been a good year. His own personal harvest would likely bring his entire household through the winter alright, with a bit to start them into spring. He might be able to settle up with cash from all the householders' shares that were his due - from those who had it. Cash would come in handy. Especially now that the crown exerted taxes on its Thanes - as if it did not have enough householders and personal property of its own! Besides - there was to be a new Count of Penmorva. And Camglas did not doubt that Broggha would find reason to invent new taxes to increase the burden on his thanes. And the King would back him too!

He sighed when he thought to what his noble house had come. They were more independent in days past. They were able to be generous. They were renowned patrons of the arts even - for their standing. And they were noble men, and great. Family tradition held that one of them had slain a troll!

And now what were they come to? Little more than over-burdened, broken-down farmers, Camglas thought, pinching pennies to pay the dues imposed by the King or greater nobles.

And... he wondered how long even this would last. At 160, he might have a few years left. But things were changing. Would his son even make it to 160? As Thane here? Rhudaur was not as it had once been. And it had never been Arnor. But - if unlike their predecessors of old, his eldest son Dornendur seemed fit enough to be a thane in this age - though his love of the table and the cup were a bit too strong.

This drew Camglas' thinking to other members of his family.

Yes... there were dark clouds over Rhudaur indeed.

* * *

Eryndil at The Three Goats Inn - evening, October 8, 1347  
Written by Valandil

Eryndil and his seven companions had reached the inn just as the sun would have been setting - but they hadn't seen the sun since the rain had started, and the rain hadn't stopped yet, but had become a slow, steady, drizzle. The innkeeper had been glad to see them - few enough travelers on the road at this time, and he only had a few others. While he and his family prepared to serve the band of soldiers, the men warmed and dried themselves before a roaring fire at one end of the common room. There were a few locals present - stopping in for news or to chat before going on home. The innkeeper said that two small parties of merchants had stopped in, but they had not yet come out from their rooms.

As for news of the scream, the innkeeper had none - but they had heard it, sure enough, for it had woken all in the place and had chilled them to the bone. He learned too that a small delegation who seemed to hail from Angmar had passed through the evening before, but had stopped only to refresh themselves and their horses. Then they had pressed on northward rather than taking lodging - which the innkeeper thought odd (but an innkeeper would surely think so). This was a few hours before the scream came.

Dried off at last, the men gathered at a table placed just before the fire. Hot drinks were brought out for them, and they began to talk and to jest with one another, and this is some of what the other patrons heard:

"So, Dilion, would this be a right good place to spend the winter?"

"Indeed it would Lossion - but our rights to winter quarters extend to no inns. We would have to pay from our own pockets for it - and our purses would run dry ere the Yule!"

"It's a shame Varion," bellowed a large one. "For I think this innkeeper's daughter can't take her eyes off you!"

The men all laughed, as the subject of this speech blushed and scampered off from filling "Varion's" mug.

"Well Marion - you have sure scared her away now!" responded "Varion". "And so worthy of resting the eyes upon herself!" he added, with a wink to the girl, who now huddled near the entrance to the kitchen. Then turning back to "Dilion" he asked, "Do we still mean to make for a village in the lands east of Pennmorva for winter? Or shall we just make huts or a cabin in the woods to the southeast of that town?"

And on they talked of their purported plans, each one taking the end of the other's name and adding the "-ion" when addressing him. Food was now brought forth to them - roast fowl, boiled potatoes, carrots and cabbage, bread, butter and cheese - and they began to eat as they continued their converse.

At last, the one called "Throndion" spoke in a voice somewhat hushed, but still audible, "Have we still time to make huts against the winter cold, ...Taurenol?"

The men all froze in silence for a moment and then spoke in whispers that could not be heard, seeming to chastise the man who had spoken.

With a stern look upon his face, Eryndil laughed triumphantly to himself. Lothrond had played that to perfection. Soon all the wagging tongues would claim to know where "Taurenol" was headed for the winter. If any pursuit DID come this way, they might well be steared to the east or the southeast, while he and his men would return back northwest to Nandemar and Duinand.

It had come as a bit of a surprise to Eryndil, when men had begun to speak of him as "Taurenol" - not knowing even who it was that the name belonged to. Only that he brought the King's Justice at times of despair and then melted into the wilds without a trace. The common people loved him, although it was mixed with some fear and apprehension. So - he had "owned" the name - and while his men all knew him as "Eryndil" - few, perhaps none other, knew that he and "Taurenol" were one and the same. Thus he was "Eryndil" to his men when none were about, and "Taurenol" when others were present - if they wished to make themselves known as 'Taurenol's Band'.

Nimloss, across the table from him, was looking him in the eye as if trying to get his attention and gestured slightly toward the corner of the room over Eryndil's shoulder, even as he tried to keep his face somewhat shaded by his hood. Eryndil turned that direction, calling for more drink for his cup.

There at a small table to one side of the fireplace, he saw that a merchant had come down with his lady. Only wait... that was truly no merchant. It was his brother Vilyandur! And "his lady" was their own sister Gildurien!

Vilyandur's eyes met his own.

The evening continued - but later, as each party broke up for the night, Eryndil discretely passed over by Vilyandur, who had just sent Gildurien off, and whispered so that none other could hear.

"Well met, my brother. What takes you out on the road at this time?"

"I return home, brother - from whence I shall not say. But one can keep my secrets who has secrets of his own to keep, yes, 'Taurenol'?"

And with a wry smile, Vilyandur turned to the small stairway and went aloft to his rooms.


	20. Hanging and Drawing

Morva Torch, early hours of October 8, 1347.  
Written by Gordis 

Kvigr was lying trussed on the floor of a dirty hut, the tight ropes painfully biting into his wrists and ankles. He told himself calmly that it mattered not, as he would not need his legs or arms or other body parts anymore...

After the trial, Kvigr remained numb for a long time, his mind totally blank. He even dozed for a few hours, but then the pain brought him back to bitter awareness.

Soon his head would be stuck on a pole in his village of Penn, for all to see, as is the way with brigands and murderers. Now Kvigr was glad that his father was dead, and wouldn't feel ashamed for him. But his poor mother would see it, and all the neighbors, and Hegga, if she were still alive... Perhaps she would even shed a tear... before marrying someone else.

What had he done? With his own hands he had dug a grave for himself and likely for the fair Lady Aewen as well. The thought of her made him flinch... The brute had flogged her mercilessly, but was that all? Kvigr imagined the cruel giant Broggha brutally raping the poor lady again and again... The scene was so vivid that Kvigr moaned in hopeless anguish...

Aewen's cries and Algeirr's cruel words resonated in his brain.

"A stupid pup, weak and silly... He was never of any use... I can't care less... can't care less... can't...".

Something snapped inside him and Kvigr wept.

* * *

Morva Torch, Afternoon of October 8, 1347  
Written by Angmar

Though scheduled for that morning, the execution of Kvigr had been delayed because a chill autumn rain had fallen. When the skies brightened in the afternoon, it was deemed that the execution should commence, for in spite the weather, Jarl Broggha wanted the man dead by nightfall.

The sun gleamed on the raindrops still clinging to the colorful autumn foliage, adding a carnival air to the great clearing in Broggha's camp. The gibbet stood high on its platform above the gathered throng of people. The device was little more than a pole with a crossbeam and brace, with an attached metal loop driven into the end of the crossbeam. The lumber had been cut quickly, the lumber still rough and weeping with oozing pine sap.

Since the method of public execution had been virtually unheard of before in Rhudaur, there had been little time to prepare. By necessity, the instruments selected were rude improvisations using common tools found upon farms. A brazier glowed on the platform, a number of useful implements lying near at hand. The executioner, one of Broggha's men who had volunteered for this service, and his assistants were nervous, but all of them realized there was a promise that if they became adept, there would be more such work for them in the future.

A chill autumn wind blew from the west and fanned the fires in the brazier as Broggha climbed the stairs to a raised observation platform, his six bodyguards following in his steps. Drawing his great fur cape about himself, he sat down upon his log throne, which had been placed there for the occasion. Two more men flanked an ashen-faced Aewen, her arm held in a sling, as she struggled to climb the stairs. When she stumbled, she was caught by one of the men before she could tumble off the steps. Looking apprehensively at Broggha, she took a designated seat beside him, with Malaneth standing nigh to her.

"Bring forth the condemned!" Jarl Broggha's great voice boomed out.

A horn sounded as guards with spears kept the path cleared for Kvigr. His hands bound behind his back, he was marched forward, the sound of the screaming hoots and jeers of the throng echoing in his ears. All of Broggha's men who had not been assigned sentry duty or who were not away on scouting missions were in attendance, as were many of the morbid curiosity seekers from nearby villages. Parents held small children aloft on their shoulders so that the young ones would not miss any of the spectacle. As the children pointed fingers to the gibbet, the parents laughed as they answered their questions.

"What is going to happen, Father?"

"We are going to see a great event, son! A villain is going to die today in a most peculiar manner and we are going to witness his death!"

"Oh jolly! This shall be amusing!" the child exclaimed as he pounded on his father's shoulders in his excitement.

Some innovative merchants had set up temporary marketplaces from the backs of wagons and hawked everything from carved wooden whistles and other toys to bread, cakes, wine and ale.

Kvigr, his head bowed, stood atop a platform as a noose was placed around his neck, the rope running through the ring at the end of the crossbeam and feeding out to the hands of three men on the ground. One of the executioner's assistants bound the condemned's knees and ankles with ropes.

The crowd watched in silence as Broggha rose to his towering height. "You have been found guilty of the crimes of treason, murder and abduction, and have been sentenced to death. Have you any words to say before the sentence is executed?"

"I beg that a message be taken to my mother and a woman named Hegga of my village, asking for their forgiveness and telling them that I love them. I ask the Lady Aewen for forgiveness and am sorry that I have brought her more grief."

"Your request will be honored," Broggha responded munificently. As the Jarl resumed his seat, he brought his right hand down towards the ground, the signal for the drummers to begin their death knell and the execution to commence. A stark look of terror and disbelief engulfed Kvigr's face as he found himself hauled into the air by his neck. The crowd roared its approval as the three men held the rope taut while Kvigr's legs bucked and kicked spasmodically. The noose slowly strangling him, Kvigr's body reacted to his terror and a stream of urine soaked his breeches. Fingers pointed at him as the shouts of the crowd rose to a fever pitch.

The executioner signaled to his assistants and they slowly lowered Kvigr's nearly unconscious body to the floor of the platform. They waited until Kvigr sucked gulp after gulp of air into his lungs. Clearing his mind of confusion, the executioner set his mouth into a tight line as he drew a dagger from his belt. Quickly he did his work as Kvigr screamed his agony, watching as the severed parts were tossed into the brazier. The crowd howled and clapped.

Looking into Kvigr's pain-filled eyes, the executioner bent and plunged the dagger into his abdomen, cutting from left to right and then slightly upward. Kvigr's intestines began spilling out. The executioner drew out the rest with hook and threw them into the fire. Aewen and Malaneth screamed, Aewen soon falling into a swoon as Malaneth blanched in horror and put her hand to her mouth. Some in the crowd did not have the mettle to stomach this gruesome sight, and turned their heads, some retching, but most cheering.

Kvigr's life almost gone, the executioner ended it by slicing upward into his torso and drawing out his still-beating heart. Holding the dripping muscle in his hands, he presented it first to the view of Broggha and then turned and showed it to the crowd. Hats were pulled from heads and tossed into the air as the people screamed their approval.

An assistant handed an axe to the executioner, who divided first Kvigr's head from his body, and then his four limbs. His head would be placed in a box and returned to the village from which he had come, and the arms and legs would be delivered by special courier to the four closest villages to the border of Rhudaur.

At the conclusion of the execution, Jarl Broggha, a smile of satisfaction on his face, walked regally down the stairs and through the processional way held open by the guards. Even though his back and shoulders throbbed painfully, this had been a good day, for he news of the Jarl's justice would spread throughout the whole country. Kvigr's death would serve as an example to any others who would dare raise their hands against the powerful chieftain.

* * *

Morva Torch, Night of October 15, 1347  
Written by Angmar

One week had passed since the execution of the criminal Kvigr. All that day, there had been a great commotion in camp as stores of supplies and possessions were loaded in packs for the trip to Cameth Brin. Before dawn the next day, the packs would be loaded on the pack saddles of horses, and the journey to the capitol would commence. A small garrison were to remain in Morva Torch to "keep the peace" in the area. The men were exhausted from the labor of the day, but not too exhausted to hear the latest news.

On the day of Kvigr's death, ten riders in pairs had been dispatched to carry the severed pieces of the felon's body to the village of his birth and to the four corners of Rhudaur. One pair - the two who had ridden to the man's place of birth - had returned just that morning. After reporting to Jarl Broggha, the men had been dismissed to relax and were now describing their trip to the off duty men, who hovered around them.

The men stood, laughing and talking, around the campfire, taking advantage of the heat of the fire to warm their backs. Griss and Heggr were all ears to hear what had happened and were listening intently to the man's account.

Between liberal sips of ale from the drinking horn, the short, one-eyed man scratched his stubby beard, reflecting upon what he would say next.

"Kvigr's old dam - and I'll say she had a real figure on her for a woman that age..." he winked his good eye, "I notice things like that..."

"Go on with your story! We don't want to hear about this wench!!" Heggr complained irritably.

"Give me a minute, will you? This ale is good!" The courier was obviously enjoying being the center of attention. "Well, anyway, we rode up to the camp. Everyone eyed us suspiciously. Maybe they had already had word of what had happened. Who knows? It doesn't matter." He lifted the horn to his lips again and squinted his good eye at the crowd.

"Are you going to tell the story today or do we have to wait all week?" a man muttered angrily.

"None of you have any appreciation for a good story, do you?" the one-eyed man said. "I'll tell it, I'll tell it! There were not too many people around when we rode up. After that little visit we paid on them last year, not too many people live there anymore. The Jarl's man - the thane he put in charge - came running out of his longhouse with his council right behind him and all of them stood there waiting like hounds with their tongues hanging out, all eager to see what we had brought them. After the proprieties were exchanged, the thane ordered that a regular ceremony be held in honor of such an occasion!"

"You mean the delivery of a severed head is an event worthy of ceremony?" Heggr guffawed.

"Why don't you just shut up?" the one-eyed man shouted angrily.

"All right, all right," Heggr grumbled. "What happened next!"

"The thane held the package up in the air as he walked to the center of the village - all of his counselors keeping in his footsteps - real solemn, you know, as a boy pounded on a drum. The stinking head attracted every dog in the village, and they followed along behind, barking and yapping! It was quite a procession, and I felt sort of humble at being a part of it. The thane ordered a post set up in the middle of the town, and there he stuck Kvigr's head for all to see!" The man wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and waited to see the crowd's reaction. "That is about all there is to tell."

"What about his mother?" Heggr asked.

"I thought you weren't interested in his mother," one-eye said churlishly. "My drinking horn is empty. Boy," he looked to a young Arnorian thrall, "bring me more ale!"

"I wasn't interested in the middle of the story, but I am now." Griss grinned.

"No fairer woman of that age have I ever seen in all my days! Her hair was darker than the raven's wings and she wore it in two braids wrapped around her head with a cloth pinned over it. Her dress was of poor quality, but she filled it out most admirably! Her pretty face had hardly any wrinkles, but had a sad look to it. With a woman like that..." one-eye winked.

"We know what you would do to a woman like that!" Griss interjected. "Now what about her, besides the fact that you are lusting for her?"

"When she saw her boy's head up atop that poll, she screamed like some demon and then fainted dead away! One of the women stuck an onion under her nose to revive her, and she finally came around, but she was as pale as a spectre in a barrowfield!"

The boy had returned with one-eye's refilled drinking horn.

"Now that I have finished my tale, leave me in peace! I'm tired from my journey, and the Jarl has let me off for the rest of the day! Now don't you louts have something to do?" He gave a dismissive wave of his hand as he sat down and turned his attention to his ale.

"Let's go over to the cooking area and see if there is a scrap of meat or something left from the supper," Griss suggested to Heggr.

Distracted, the other man mumbled, "Aye."

"What's wrong with you?" Griss queried. "Your jaw is generally flapping all the time."

"My teeth are bothering me. It is this cold air that makes them ache."

"I've been around you long enough to know that that is not all that is on your mind. Out with it, man! What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking I'd like to go courting!" Heggr grinned, showing several brown, decaying teeth in his lower jaw.

"Before you do that, I suggest that you get the shaman to pull some of those teeth out of your fool head. As you look now, no woman would have anything to do with you! And do something about your breath, man! You would stink out the vultures that gather around the village cutter's cart."


	21. The Council of Rhudaur

Cameth Brin, October 9, 1347  
Written by Gordis 

The steadily drenching autumn rain came from the North in the morning, turning the narrow streets of the citadel into little rivulets and washing away dirt and horse dung accumulated in the gutters.

Tarnendur gingerly picked his way from the Palace to the Tower. He had ordered the Council to be held this morning, to discuss the last preparations for Broggha's arrival and to make the important announcements before the meddling Hillman became part of the Council.

He noticed Gimilbeth's gilded palanquin, a page walking on the either side, moving to the tower in front of him. It was really ridiculous to ask to be carried the small distance that separated the Palace from the Tower! But Gimilbeth was ever like a cat, disgusted to drench her paws in the rain. Tarnendur scowled. He had not seen his daughter for three days, and was still angry at her impertinence during their last meeting.

Still scowling, he quickened his pace and caught up with Gimilbeth at the doors of the Tower. His daughter was dressed in a closely fitting gray gown, embroidered with silver thread. She looked paler than usual, but she curtsied and greeted him with such a bright warm smile that Tarnendur's anger melted and he beamed back, inwardly relieved. He hated to quarrel with Gimilbeth. When his daughter was happy, life was so much easier for everybody, but when she wasn't, she had her ways of making everyone feel miserable as well.

The Council was held in an old, slightly shabby Council room on the third floor of the Tower. The narrow window slits in the thick walls let little light pass, so candles burned on the oblong wooden table that stood in the middle of the circular room. The counselors bowed to the King who entered, followed by Gimilbeth.

There was the old, balding, portly Curugil, brother of the Lord of Nothwa Rhaglaw, and the Queen's great uncle, General Nimruzir from Fennas Drunin, veteran of many wars, with a scar across his face and an evil temper; Huramir from Dol Aglardin, Belzagar from Dol Duniath, Elured from Brochenridge, and several lesser counselors. Among them was only one young face: Daurendil, the Heir to the throne, stood all flushed and happy to attend his first Council.

The King took his place at the head of the table, Daurendil standing behind his back. All the Council members took their customary places. The King announced, avoiding looking at his daughter:

"My Lords, Lady Gimilbeth, the times are growing darker and darker. The Kingdom is in peril. Daurendil, my son, has not yet come of age, but given the gravity of the situation, I have decided to give him a place on the Council now. For the one who is destined to wear the Crown after me must have time to learn to bear this burden."

The counselors nodded, murmuring in approval. Gimilbeth's brows lifted; that has been unexpected. She eyed her brother coldly and he squirmed under her gaze. Without a word, Gimilbeth rose regally and indicated for Daurendil to take her place on the King's right. Curugil, who usually sat on the left of the King, rose hastily, as swiftly as his great bulk permitted, and ceded his chair to Gimilbeth. A brief confusion followed, as everyone moved one place lower along the line.

"How silly it is!" thought Tarnendur. "In two weeks, they will have to move again, making place for Broggha." The King felt sick at this thought.

After an hour of debates on the relocation of the troops around the capital and on the new levies to be made in the villages, the King came to the next important matter.

"As my daughter so rightly pointed out," he said, nodding to Gimilbeth, "in such troubled times, the alliances with Arthedain and Gondor become of utmost importance. Desiring to strengthen our ties with Arthedain, I have decided to propose my daughter in marriage to the eldest son of the Heir of Arthedain, Malvegil's grandson." Tarnendur consulted a scroll on the table, peering at it with myopic eyes and elaborated. "Beleg, son of Celebrindol."

A stunned silence followed. Everyone was looking at Gimilbeth, and she felt her cheeks burn. Had her father become crazy? This Arthedain pup must be no more than forty! Certainly Gimilbeth's age was a closely guarded secret, known to few in Rhudaur, but her father should know that she was seventy years Beleg's senior! She decided to broach the subject herself.

"And have you considered the age difference, Father?" she asked smoothly.

The King brushed the matter aside. "I know that Tarniel is too young." Tarnendur's voice was harsh. "But we can wait with the actual marriage. Once the betrothal is arranged, we can look forward to Arthedain's aid. And the marriage can be concluded in ten or fifteen years."

Gimilbeth's cheeks burned even brighter. What a fool she had been not to think of her younger sister! She still considered her a baby, but her father was right. In fifteen years, she would be of marriageable age.

Daurendil stifled a giggle, seeing Gimilbeth's embarrassment. The occasion was so rare - a good story to tell his brother when the Council was over. Truth be told, Daurendil hated the witch and feared her. She had such cold, piercing eyes that sort of looked right through you... And all these stories told by the servants...

Meanwhile, the King continued.

"Perhaps, if Malvegil agrees, we can arrange to send Tarniel to Fornost, to complete her education. She will be far safer in Arthedain, away from our Hillmen."

A hot debate followed, Nimruzir bellowing that such an arrangement was unseemly and would show Rhudaur's weakness. Arthedain's champion Curugil was contradicting him in his old strident voice.

Having recovered somewhat, Gimilbeth chimed in. "I think this matter can be discussed later. I believe the King has proposed a very advantageous match for the Princess Tarniel, and even more so for our Kingdom. I volunteer to go to Fornost myself to speak with the King Malvegil on the matter."

Tarnendur beamed in surprise. He was sure Gimilbeth would have objected, but she even proposed her intervention. But was that safe for Gimilbeth?

"Winter is coming, my daughter. It is difficult for your delicate disposition to travel so far in cold weather. Perhaps, we should better send a messenger?"

"The winter is not too close, Father, there would hardly be any snow before the end of Narbeleth," replied Gimilbeth. "Moreover, probably I will have to go only as far as Amon Sul, to speak with the King of Arthedain via the Palantir. No need to travel all the way to Fornost. I will also try to communicate with King Romendacil of Gondor. Perhaps he could send us at least some money to hire more mercenaries. The Hillmen troops are not trustworthy."

After some debate, the matter was decided. Gimilbeth was to travel to Amon Sul as soon as Hurgon, the famous court painter, finished a portrait of Tarniel to be shown to Malvegil and to her future husband.

* * *

Cameth Brin, Afternoon of October 10, 1347  
Written by Elfhild and Serenoli

It was the afternoon of the next day, and Tarniel and Baineth, one of her maids, sat about in her chamber. Tarniel felt melancholy, sorrowful that soon her life was about to change. At least she had a few days before Wilwarin would shadow her footsteps. Not that she had taken an intense dislike of the woman, but, as royalty, it made her unhappy when there were changes to her blissful existence. She really should be thankful, not complaining, for Wilwarin was there to keep her and Odaragariel safe from any enemies.

Baineth's words broke her concentration. "Did you hear what happened yesterday?" she asked.

The princess shook her head. "No, I did not."

Baineth lowered her voice. "Yesterday morning, Gimilbeth sent her maid to the market to buy a black cockerel. Everyone in the palace is talking about it today."

Tarniel cringed. With all her peculiarities, Gimilbeth was an embarrassment to the family. Everyone thought she was a witch, and Tarniel agreed with them. She was a shame and a mockery to the royal family, for they were good, faithful Arnorians, not Black Numenoreans who practiced the worship of the Dark. Tarniel shivered. She had always suspected that her half-sister dabbled in witchcraft, and the purchase of the black chicken was yet another proof of this.

She wondered what purpose this chicken was to serve - what sort of spell was Gimilbeth casting? Tarniel prayed that it did not concern her or any other members of her family. That would be horrible, to live in fear that her own half-sister was conspiring to curse everyone whom she knew.

"I wonder what Gimilbeth is planning to do with the chicken?" Tarniel mused out loud.

"Maybe she fed it to her scary cats," suggested Baineth.

"Maybe," murmured Tarniel, hopeful that her maid's assumption was correct. If it was not,╜ then Tarniel dreaded to contemplate the evils in which Gimilbeth had involved herself.

At that moment someone knocked on the door and rushed into the room.

"I have news!" Her pale cheeks flushing, and her eyes glinting teasingly, Odaragariel flung herself onto the couch and looked up expectantly at Tarniel.

"Well?"

Leaning forward, she almost whispered, spacing her words out carefully for emphasis, "Your father, and the rest of the Council, have decided to propose you in marriage to - well, guess who?"

Tarniel looked at her in exasperation. "Will you tell me or not?"

"The hillman, Broggha!" Then seeing the alarmed look on Tarniel's face, she broke into peals of laughter, and amended, "I'm just joking, of course its not Broggha! His name is Beleg, son of - well, can't remember who. But he's the heir to Arthedain... or the heir of the heir... well?" she asked, impatient for Tarniel's reaction.

Tarniel opened her mouth, perhaps to express surprise, or maybe pleasure, but suddenly suspicious, she narrowed her eyes, and asked, "And how come you know so much about it? Am I to believe they're letting you in the Council meetings now? Or perhaps you've been -"

"No, I haven't been eavesdropping!" finished Odaragariel angrily. "It wouldn't be ladylike. No, I traded secrets with your brother, he's allowed in. He's not supposed to tell you, though, they're planning on breaking it gently to you, or something. Anyway, he made me promise not to tell, but I had my fingers crossed!" she added hastily as a look of disapproval once again crossed Tarniel's face.

Momentarily diverted, Tarniel asked, "Does crossing fingers really invalidate a promise?"

"Of course!" Odaragariel replied with all the experience of the two-years' head start she had had into this world. Just in case it wasn't true, though, she had her fingers neatly crossed under the folds of her heavily embroidered robe.

One brow cocked, Tarniel skeptically regarded Odaragariel. "Hmm, I am not so sure about that..."

Both girls giggled, and then Tarniel said, "Please keep me informed of all you hear! I wonder when they shall tell me of my betrothal?"

Tarniel contemplated the news which Odaragariel had told her. She was to be wed to this Beleg, prince of Arthedain. Well, at least it was not Broggha! Odaragariel's jest had really given her a scare.

She tried to recall all she had been told about Beleg of Arthedain. Was he not in his forties? A frown came to her pretty face; why could it not have been someone more her own age? Ah, but she was being silly, perhaps. She was not even of marriageable age yet! The marriage would not take place for many years, and all of the negotiations had not even been finalized. It was not something she had to worry about for a long time.

But she wondered... would she love this man? Not that love really had anything to do with arranged marriages, but still, the heart, especially that of a young girl, was filled with hopes and dreams.


	22. The Portrait of the Bride

Cameth Brin, October 10, 1347  
Written by Serenoli 

Hurgon Fernik, the Court painter, in a haze of drunkenness, suddenly realized there was something wrong with his room. A lot of people held the opinion that the whole room was somehow wrong- untidy, full of weird musical instruments, bottles of a very fine Southern wine that even the king wished he had, and paint all over. There were unfinished portraits on the walls... a large one of a frog was, in particular, outstanding. Little glass bottles of paint adorned a shelf, together with brushes, canvas and ink. Unfortunately for him, he had not been given a large enough table to hold all this, and had therefore dumped most of it on his bed. The bedcovers had been pulled out and a new bed was constructed on the floor every night. The one time Gimilbeth had ventured out to see him, she had been so horrified at the state of his room, she had blanched and run off without even telling him what she wanted. Hurgon didn't mind, however... he felt his room gave him individuality.

However, right now, there was a large purple envelope lying on his bed, directly over an unfinished portrait of the princess Tarniel. It was too neat, and too out-of-place, and so he lumbered over to it, and pulled it open. In white letters, the words floated before him:

"Fernik, You are to have the painting completed in the next month. -Tarnendur."

It was a very informal reminder that the king had sent, but he had long ago realized that Hurgon had a bad memory, and that he tended to get confused by too many long words. As it is, the letter reminded Hurgon so effectually of what the king had said to him about this subject that very morning, he was momentarily knocked sober.

Collecting his wits about him (there were very few, mind, so it took little effort), he began hurriedly collecting paint, brushes and the portrait itself, and ran full-length up and down sundry stairs, down halls and corridors, till he reached a door that seemed likely. Panting, he knocked, and the door slowly creaked open. Princess Tarniel and Princess Odaragariel stared up at him, both looking rather pink.

Then the latter sat up, and said, "Well, Hurgon, what do you want?"

"Just, just thought I should, you know," he said while he thought about it. He remembered the king said something about 'not divulging it yet'- but how was he supposed to paint, unless he told the princesses he was going to do it? Should he hide in bushes and paint her in covert? Wouldn't work. There was nothing for it, but to divulge it, say what Tarnendur would about it. "I was thinking of finishing the painting."

The two girls raised eyebrows at each other in a meaningful glance that clearly said, "So soon?" However they made no objections, and soon Hurgon was happily absorbed in his second-most favorite occupation in the world - painting.

* * *

Cameth Brin, October 10, 1347.  
Written by Gordis, Elfhild and Serenoli

"My lady, master Hurgon is not in his room," Edelbar, the golden-haired Page, announced gravely, bowing before Gimilbeth. Then he smiled, a soft mischievous smile that made him look exactly his twelve years again.

"His room is a horrible mess, my lady. A regular orc den it is. I didn't venture inside, lest I would get paint stains all over me. A servant said Hurgon had taken a canvas and paints and went to the Princesses' wing".

Gimilbeth smiled. So, at last things got going. This morning, she was most displeased to learn from her father that he had asked Hurgon to finish the portrait next month. No, it would be far too late! She had no wish to travel to Amon Sul in winter. The portrait had to be finished by the end of Narbeleth by the latest! She said so to the King in no uncertain terms, and he cowed as usual and advised her to speak with Hurgon herself. Now was as good a time as any. She much preferred to go visit the neat Tarniel's room than the extravagant painter's lair. Gimilbeth rose and left her study, nodding to Edelbar to follow.

The guards in the Hall parted, bowing, to let her pass. With a corner of her eye Gimilbeth noticed, chuckling inwardly, that some of them were making a sign behind their backs to ward off evil.

In a minute Gimilbeth stood in front of Tarniel's door. A muffled sound of voices and occasional giggles were coming from inside. Edelbar knocked, bowed low to the ladies, sweeping the floor with his feathered hat, and announced in a clear cultured voice, fit for a much loftier court

"My Ladies, Master Hurgon, greetings. My Lady Gimilbeth is here to see you ."

There was an exclamation from inside, sounding much like a panicked mouse's squeak. Gimilbeth took it as an invitation and entered.

There were two girls curtseying before her, dark-haired Tarniel and fair-haired Odaragariel. Both looked tense and not a little frightened. Hurgon stood in front of the unfinished portrait. He made an attempt to bow, but swayed drunkenly and almost lost his balance. Gimilbeth smelled a reek of liquor in the air - Hurgon was drunk as usual. Instead of bowing, Hurgon waved with his brush and settled for a bright smile, showing yellow uneven teeth.

Gimilbeth nodded regally in greeting to the assembled company and made herself comfortable in a high-backed chair by the table, neatly arranging the folds of her blue richly embroidered gown around her. She noticed how the girls exchanged glances and resumed their seats, trying to hold their backs straight and their faces blank.

Gimilbeth eyed the princesses in silence for some time, assessing them with her cold eyes. They have grown indeed, and she hadn't noticed it before. Tarniel was becoming quite fair to look upon. If only she were not such a weak spiritless creature... As for Odaragariel, she was simply and utterly plain, and no fine dresses or priceless jewels could remedy to the fact. But that one had wit, at least, and a strong personality. All this would be wasted on this bore Daurendil...

Tarniel gulped and struggled for words, her duties as a hostess suddenly dawning on her. Her cheeks turned pink in embarrassment and she turned to Odaragariel for reassurance.

"The silly wench doesn't even know how lovely she looks", thought Gimilbeth with a wave of hate washing over her. The baby-sister that the King had foisted upon her needed no makeup to appear radiant, she could stay up all night long and remain lovely, she could weep and remain desirable...much as she was able herself at fifteen.

"Wait till you are hundred, my puppy," thought Gimilbeth venomously. "Faithful as you are, you will be all gray and wrinkled at my age. And then you will die and go to a cold grave and worms will eat your flesh. That is the way of life."

---

Thanks to a reassuring nod from Odaragariel, Tarniel regained her wits, took a deep breath, and looked to her half-sister, the evil witch and shame of the royal family. She managed a polite smile, though she both resented and feared Gimilbeth's presence.

"Good morning, Gimilbeth. As you can see, Master Hurgon came to finish my portrait. What brings you to my chamber?"

Whatever it was, Tarniel hoped that the witch would leave quickly. She should not allow her half-sister to intimidate her so much! But given the woman's dreadful reputation, bizarre habits and strange personality, who could help but shudder involuntarily at a visit from her? Tarniel was not alone in her uneasiness. She wondered what Gimilbeth's true purpose in being here was, but guessed she would learn soon enough.

Gimilbeth did not reply at once. She seemed intent on taking her own time and manner in explaining her unexpected visit.

Odaragariel, realising that Tarniel was getting redder every second, now with indignation at not being answered, and that Hurgon was disintegrating on the spot under Gimilbeth's beady stare, said, a little sharply, "Fair morning, lady Gimilbeth. I hope you have no special news to communicate with Tarniel... for if you do, I shall, of course, be glad to leave you in private." Saying which, she stood up, and made a courteous half-bow.

Tarniel looked alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with the sister she regarded with a mixture of fear and revulsion; but at least Gimilbeth was forced to reply now.

"Oh, no, you may stay." she replied. Odaragariel looked at her quizzically, and then sat down. "My business is not with her; though of course, I always love to drop in to see my lovely sister."

This last was said in so insincere a tone, that Odare, at least, was certain Gimilbeth was about to make herself unpleasant. Steeling herself, she asked, "Do you, then, wish to discuss something with me?"

"I'm afraid not. There is someone else in this room, is there not?"

Hurgon, who had been trying to blend into the wall, was thus, suddenly thrown into focus. All the eyes riveted to the poor terrified painter. Hurgon gave a weak pathetic smile, and swayed on his feet again.

Gimilbeth could never tell why her mere presence made most people feel uneasy. The widespread rumors of her supernatural powers were hardly to blame, as she had the same effect on people even back in her youth, much like her grandmother Serinde did. Perhaps this spiritual kinship made the old Umbarian lady love her granddaughter so much, although she despised her father Tarnendur. Gimilbeth loved her grandmother in return, much more than she ever loved her parents, and she felt bereft at the news of Serinde's death at a respectable age of 215 which came a year ago.

"Master Hurgon," Gimilbeth said sweetly, never taking her eyes off the painter's shaking form, "it is about the portrait you are painting. It has to be completed by the end of this month at the latest, but I will be MOST grateful, if you finish it even earlier."

At that the painter bristled. He always took his painting very much to heart.

"But... Lady Gimilbeth... there is no way to finish this portrait in three weeks! It is a work of art, not some tavern sign painted anyhow in mere hours! I have to render faithfully the lady Tarniel's likeness, and try to capture some of her sweet character as well..."

He would have rumbled on and on, but Gimilbeth stopped him raising her hand slightly.

"Pray let me finish, Master Hurgon," she said, sterner now. "Nobody cares about the likeness. Make the young lady on the portrait beautiful and noble and sweet and richly dressed. That is all that is required. If Tarniel's betrothed is disappointed later, upon seeing her in person, it is his problem." Gimilbeth turned her head to look at Tarniel and smiled a cold wintry smile.

Tarniel's cheeks turned even redder. "Were you speaking of betrothal, Gimilbeth? I have not been told about it..."

Gimilbeth's brows arched slightly and her eyes narrowed. "I suppose your mother has not yet steeled herself sufficiently to break the news gently to you. I will not interfere with her errand. Suffice to say, Tarniel, that your hand is the State property, so you have to abide by the King's decision concerning your future marriage."

Looking into Tarniel's shocked face, Gimilbeth smiled sweetly and thought. "Indeed her hand is a trump card in the difficult game I am playing. I know not whom I may see fit to propose her: perhaps to this Beleg, or to his younger brother, or to the sons of Eldacar of Gondor, or to the sons of his rival Castamir, or, maybe, to this mysterious King of Angmar, who may be willing to accept the royal bride as weregild for his dead hound Broggha. I shall see how the cards are dealt."

Gimilbeth rose and walked slowly towards the door. Edelbar rushed forward to open it for her. At the door, she turned and repeated "The portrait must be ready by the end of the month, Master Hurgon. Pray do not forget. If you finish in time you will get a case of the finest Lebennin wine. If you don't... " She left the last sentence hanging in the air ominously.

"Farewell, ladies." Gimilbeth nodded her head in parting. Not waiting for the princesses to finish their farewells she left the room. The princesses strained their ears trying to catch the sound of her retreating footsteps, but heard nothing. Only the big striped cat, which had followed Gimilbeth into the room and decided to stay on, seemed to be hearing a noise for some time. Then it relaxed, jumped onto the sofa, curled there and started licking its thick glossy fur, purring softly.

When Tarniel was certain that Gimilbeth was not lurking about, she shuddered and cried, "Oh, what a horrid woman! The audacity of her, to barge in here merely to taunt me!"

Though Tarniel had already known beforehand that she was to be betrothed, for Odaragariel had informed her earlier that morning of the confidence which Tarniel's brother had shared with her, she highly resented Gimilbeth's lording her fate over her. Perhaps it was for the best that she had prior knowledge, for to be informed of her future by Gimilbeth was like being cursed by a witch.

So that was the meaning of the portrait √ an advertisement for her future husband. At least Hurgon wanted to do her appearance honor, whereas Gimilbeth wanted it painted any old way, just so the end result resembled a young woman. It certainly sounded like her dear half-sister wanted to be rid of her as quickly as possible. Did she see her as a threat, or as a pawn?

Glancing to the cat, Tarniel narrowed her eyes. Why did Gimilbeth have to leave behind her wretched animal? She looked to Odaragariel, who was red-faced with anger, and Hurgon Fernik, who was attempting to calm down from the unpleasant encounter with the Witch of Cameth Brin.


	23. Promotion For the Wicked

Morva Torch, Night of October 15, 1347  
Written by Angmar 

The brazier in Jarl Broggha's great longhouse was glowing brightly, providing light and warmth for the building. The Jarl sat back in his fur-draped chair and looked across the table at his captains as some of his men-at-arms drank from tankards of ale.

"Jarl, I think your decision to promote the fellow Griss to captain is a judicious one. He has proved his loyalty more than once. While he is not one of our most outstanding warriors, the men admire him and look up to him for his leadership."

"Though I will be hard-pressed to find another scout and spy as good as he is, I think it is time that he have more responsibility. The man has a quick mind and good perception. Find another spy for me, Captain. I will pay him well!"

"There is a man - nothing more than a cutthroat and robber - but he is wily, and if he is paid enough, he will serve the purpose." The Captain hoped that the man would be all that and more. "Jarl, let me make him the offer and we will see what he says."

The Jarl reached into a small chest on the table and drew out a piece of gold and slid it across the table to the Captain. "Tell him there is plenty where this came from," Broggha grinned.

The Captain picked up the coin, putting it in the pouch at his belt. Then he rose to his feet and bowed. "I will know his reply by morning."

Broggha rose to his feet, a signal for his men-at-arms to do the same. "The hour grows late, gentlemen, and it is time for me to retire." He glanced to Malaneth, who was clearing the table of the empty tankards.

"Certainly, Jarl, good night to you," the Captain slid his chair back and after more good nights, he and his men departed.

"Malaneth, come sit on my lap." The Jarl pushed his chair back.

"Aye, Jarl," the woman replied, keeping her eyes down as she slid onto his lap and smoothed her skirts.

Pulling her close to him, Broggha held her in a tight embrace as he kissed her neck. "Two days ago I sent dispatch riders ahead to Cameth Brin. They bear a message to King Tarendur announcing that we should be arriving near Cameth Brin in three day's time. I have had a cart prepared to transport you and the wench Aewen. After I have the two of you established in the keep on the lands that I have been bestowed by the king, I might present you to the king's court. Perhaps you will be ladies-in-waiting to the young princess."

"Is that possible, my lord?" Malaneth asked as she felt his beard against the back of her neck. "Will he not know how you... obtained us?"

"It does not matter what he does or does not know. The king is afraid to gainsay me. I am far more powerful than he is," he murmured into her ear as he picked her up and carried her over to the fur-covered bed.

* * *

Morva Torch, October 8 - 15, 1347  
Written by Elfhild

"I beg that a message be taken to my mother and a woman named Hegga of my village, asking for their forgiveness and telling them that I love them. I ask the Lady Aewen for forgiveness and am sorry that I have brought her more grief."

Kvigr's words echoed in Aewen's mind, and over and over again she saw his brutal death, how he writhed in agony as he was hanged, the bloody emasculation and disembowelment. Though she had fainted many times throughout the horrible execution, still what she had seen would haunt her for the rest of her life. His death was all her fault; if she had not agreed to run away with him, this whole tragedy never would have happened. What was happening to her mind? First she had risked her own life by trusting a man she did not even know in the hopes that she could escape, and then, later, she had attempted to murder the Jarl in his sleep because of some strange compulsion which she still did not understand. Not only had her madness brought the Jarl's anger down on her, but it had also caused a man his life. She wished she was never born.

Though her whole body was in agony √ her back from the whipping, her wrist from the break, and her chest where her skin was seared by the hot metal √ somehow Aewen managed to find sleep that night. A horrible dream came to her while she slumbered. In it, the parts of Kvigr's body had traveled across the miles, leaving trails of blood and gore in their wake. There, gathered before her in the midst of a crossroads, they drew together by some means of enchantment, and became whole once again... if it could indeed be called whole. For where the severed limbs rejoined the torso, the clothing was ripped and stained dark with blood.

Shaking in terror, she beheld the gruesome sight. Kvigr's dead, hollow eyes looked at her with a cold, sickening lack of expression that was somehow all too expressive. Then his mouth seemed to move, and he mumbled out the words:

"I hold you accountable for my death."

Aewen woke up screaming, but no one really cared, save Malaneth.

---

As the cold days of mid-autumn passed, the pain of the many injuries inflicted upon her by her master gradually began to diminish. Each day was spent in suspense and fear, for she did not know if the Jarl planned to punish her further or even kill her, or if he had deemed that he had punished her enough already. Now it was the 15th of October, and still Aewen was alive. Soon they would be leaving this place, and Broggha had spoken of her being a lady-in-waiting to the poor princess whom he desired. It appeared that he had spared Aewen, feeling that she had learned her lesson. For her life, Aewen was grateful, though always would she live in guilt, feeling that Kvigr's death was her fault.

But a nagging worry had unsettled her mind, and she wondered how she would approach the Jarl about this matter. She feared she was with his child.

* * *

Morva Torch, October 8-15, 1347.  
Written by Gordis

Algeirr was drunk that night. He rarely permitted himself to relax completely, but now was such an occasion. Was it the full moon peering shamelessly at him from the heavens, or the tale about Kvigr's old dam and her grief told in the camp, but something snapped inside him and no amount of booze could quench this unease.

At first, Algeirr was simply angry at the fool who couldn't be trusted to spend one night in Broggha's camp without attempting to steal the Jarl's favorite mistress. He had watched Kvigr's execution unflinchingly, and only worried about his own hide.

As the Jarl had been wounded, the knowledge of healing arts that Algeirr had picked in the Arthedain and Cardolan armies proved handy: he had proposed to wash the wound with infused Kingsfoil leaves. He had a goodly supply of the staff in his backpack and spared quite a lot to regain the Jarl's trust, more than was really needed.

Broggha was a suspicious bastard, no mistake there, so he made Algeirr first try his healing arts on the Jarl's wench, Aewen. When the leaves did wonders for the deep, oozing burns on the woman's chest, the Jarl reluctantly offered his own back to Algeirr's ministrations, but the mercenary had been very much aware of two of Broggha's cutthroats hanging at his elbows with drawn knives.

Then weary days passed one after another. The Jarl seemed not in the least grateful, and affected not to notice Algeirr at all. The mercenary was not given any duties, neither was he promised any rewards. Every night, the feeling of insecurity made it difficult to find sleep, and Algeirr always kept his sword at his side, straining his ears to the sounds of approaching murderers. Not once had he mused about leaving the camp for good, but some deep, ingrained instinct told him, that had he tried to leave, he would be caught and executed the same way Kvigr had been.

Algeirr often dreamed of Kvigr's execution, but in his sleep he felt no indifference as he had watching the event itself; instead, he often found his cheeks wet and his heart pounding fiercely.

So, one week after Kvigr's execution, Algeirr paid his last copper coins for a keg of ale and got drunk alone in his hut, watching mournfully the hilt of the knife he drove deep into the earthen floor in front of him.

It was in this sorry state that Griss found Algeirr in the evening of the 15 of Narbeleth. Griss was clearly surprised to see Algeirr so unmade. He stooped at the door looking down at the sprawled mercenary. Algeirr blinked back with swollen, bleary eyes and motioned Griss towards the keg of ale without a word. Griss shook his head: he was now Captain, and had no wish to gulp cheap ale after sharing good Gondorean wine with the Jarl.

"The Jarl gave me a promotion," said Griss, wondering whether Algeirr still had enough wits left to understand him. "I am to be one of his Captains, and you will be the head of the scouts, in my stead, if you so wish."

With that he flicked the golden coin the Jarl gave him.

Algeirr's hand shot out and gripped the coin in a fluid gesture. Griss was startled by such agility in the drunken man, but then he roared with laugher.

"I see no amount of ale may quench your lust for gold, my friend," Griss said good-naturedly. "Cheer up and stop this nonsense. We are going to a place where all our lusts will be satisfied, be it for gold, fame or fine wenches! We ride to Cameth Brin on the morrow and let the Tarks tremble at our approach!"


	24. Moving On

October 12, 1347 - an hour after sunset -  
In the woods outside of the Thanehold of Ostinand  
Written by Rian 

"Well, what do you think? Shall we move on?"

Alagos turned over on his back and looked up at the stars, waiting for an answer, as his friend gazed thoughtfully on the homestead below. The lights in the buildings shone with a warm glow in the dark.

"I don't know," replied Tyaron thoughtfully. "It looks like a messenger arrived a while back - let's stay a bit longer and see what happens."

"Fine with me," shrugged Alagos, chewing on a bit of grass.

Tyaron joined his friend gazing at the stars, but he preferred to stand. As the bright constellations slowly took their turns rising in the sky, he greeted each with a solemn song sung softly in an ancient tongue that few walking the earth now knew. Sometimes Alagos joined in with the intricate harmonies, but more often than not he remained silent, which was unusual for him.

Finally, as the first hints of dawn came into the east, Alagos spoke again.

"Who are you interested in?"

Tyaron sat down next to his friend and sighed. "The girl ... she reminds me a little of your sister ..."

"And the young man with her reminds me of you," said Alagos thoughtfully. "Which one in the group reminds you of me, I wonder?"

"The pack horse," answered Tyaron with a grin.

Alagos smiled back; he was too comfortable to get up and avenge the friendly insult. They had shared many over the years, and Alagos figured he was in the lead, anyway, as the more vocal of the two.

"Well, then, let's give them a few days and see if they leave. If they do, we'll put our things back on our backs and both make like pack horses and follow them," said Alagos, sitting up and shaking the grass out of his long hair.

Tyaron nodded his assent, and as the morning light now made them more visible than they wanted to be, they melted quietly back into the deeper woods.

* * *

October 12, 1347 - an hour after sunset - Thanehold of Ostinand.  
Written by Valandil and Rian. 

The sounds of gaiety filled the Great Hall, but loudest in Eryndil's ear was the boisterous laughter of his eldest brother Dornendur.

"And now," Dornendur said, turning back to Eryndil and pausing just long enough to take another deep draught from his tankard, "Did you hear this one? Three Halflings walk into an Inn. Innkeeper says, 'What do you?'"

Yes √ Eryndil had likely heard that one. He had heard EVERY joke that Dornendur tried so very hard to tell. But he just smiled politely and nodded as his inebriated elder sibling continued on yet another monolog.

Nonetheless, it was good to be home - and for the whole winter! His family had been so excited to see him. His little joke on his folks - of sending some of his men ahead, along with the brother and sister they had rescued - the joke had come off half decently. As King's Men, they had demanded the right to winter lodging - and as his father Camglas had no others, he was well under his quota as Thane. But, as Eryndil had expected, he had begrudged what was demanded as an obligation - while for the barest wanderer, he knew his father would have put up gladly, out of kindness, if the boon was asked. Then two days later - yesterday - Eryndil had arrived with the rest of his men. His father was surprised beyond hope at his appearing. His mother - embarrassed at the treatment his other men had received. And now - Callon and Caelen were welcomed as if they were part of the family.

This feast tonight was in his honor. It was a joyous homecoming celebration. The modest-sized Great Hall was swelled with 80 people or more - maybe 100 with the servants coming and going. The head table was crammed with 13 - sitting elbow-to-elbow as they presided over the happy occasion, for there was all Eryndil's family, including Dornendur's wife and three children, and even Callon and Caelen. His elder brother had even given up his own place of honor - at their father's right hand - to Eryndil this evening.

As Dornendur finished his latest tale, Eryndil tried his hardest to laugh a bit, but Dornendur sighed and slumped slightly forward. His wife, on his other side, seemed oblivious to him as she pulled apart a roast fowl, but his children - all between 10 and 18, tittered and giggled at their father's condition. Eryndil took the opportunity to turn to his left.

His father sat rather quietly, eating slowly, but looking quite pleased. He also looked old! How the last five years had aged him, thought Eryndil. But these were not good times in Rhudaur - not for Dunedain Thanes.

His mother was on his father's other side. Lady Rildorien had lost little of the beauty that had been the fame of the Angle when his father had swept her off her feet. But tonight she seemed preoccupied - trying to split her attention between her husband, and the work of the servants keeping the celebrants well supplied. She had little enough attention left to give her own plate - which sparsely filled to begin with, was mostly untouched.

Beyond his mother was his younger sister, Hendegil. She was not the little girl that Eryndil had first left behind 15 years ago. And when he returned five years back - a special bond of friendship and respect had grown between them. And now, at 25, she was quite the young lady. Eryndil winced to think that Rhudaur was no longer a fit place for her. Innocent she was, and a lover of lore and peace and all that was good. Faithful she still was, beyond his doubt - though clearly very much alone.

Next to Hendegil sat Caelen, and then Callon. Hendegil had befriended Caelen quite quickly, once she learned that her courageous brother had rescued her - and had even tried to comfort her before. On this night, the two talked non-stop, with Callon at times trying to listen, or even to add a word or two (Eryndil laughed inwardly at each attempt he made - much funnier than Dornendur's jokes, for sure) - at other times eating with the appetite of a young man his age and surveying his surroundings.

Next to Callon sat Eryndil's brother Vilyandur, and then their sister Gildorien. The two spoke mostly to one another, turning to do so that none might hear. But their looks strayed mostly between Eryndil and Callon & Caelen. The eyes of Vilyandur seemed most often to drift back to Caelen.

Well - at least they apparently hadn't spread the word about meeting Eryndil at the Three Goats Inn four days past. He could be glad for that. But he had little doubt they would be off toward his dreadful Marugond by the end of the month, or some other Eruforsaken place - to spend the night before the Fall. Bad part was - they would be sure to try and get Hendegil to go with them this time - maybe even try to drag Callon and Caelen along.

Eryndil's eyes then drifted beyond the head table, out to the others gathered on the main floor below - various cousins and servants and guardsmen attached to the household - along with about half of his own men (the five from households on this thanehold were excused to go to their own families for the winter - but had to report their whereabouts and meet at Ostinand at noon each Orgilion (Saturday) - the first day of the week). There were also some friends from town and various and sundry other guests.

Eryndil next took in the room about him - and thought of his father-s holdings. It was really remarkable for a Dunedain Thane to be doing so well in this day. Eryndil had taken that for granted growing up here (just as he now felt he had taken his father and mother for granted) - but through his years in the King's Service, he knew all too well how rare it was. Of course, their ancestors' foresight in making the place so defensible a few generations back had been crucial. Ostinand could likely repulse an assault from a small army - but because its defenses seemed so strong, they had never even been tried. It was also fortunate that they were a bit off the major highways - and that the surroundings were just prosperous enough to keep everyone in a bit of comfort, and not so rich as to attract the wrong kind of attention.

A servant suddenly came into the Hall with a look of express purpose on his face. It was a watchman from an upper tower. He strode straight up to Eryndil's father and leaned toward him as he spoke sharply, but in a hushed voice. "Thane Camglas - a rider approaches!"

Camglas sat up straight, nodded to the man, and then smoothed his clothes and the edge of his short-trimmed beard, that he might give the fitting appearance of a proper Thane at his dinner to this night-time visitor. The watchman went out through the main doors.

A few minutes later, he re-entered with a man dressed in the livery of the King's messenger service, and the look of having just endured a hard ride. The room became quiet, as the watchman swept out his arm toward Camglas, signaling to the messenger that he could proceed. The sound of his footfalls on the stone floor filled the room. He approached the Thane and bowed, Camglas inclining his head in return. The messenger spoke first.

"Greetings, Thane Camglas, son of Borlost!"

"Welcome, rider. We have plenty of fare this eventide. Did you come to join our revelry, or does other business drive you?"

"The King's business, oh Thane. I come at the command of King Tarnendur, seeking information on the whereabouts of your son, Eryndil, who leads a command of men in the King's Service."

Camglas' eyes remained fixedly forward - he would not turn them toward his son. But it seemed to Eryndil that his heart sank. "You know that men like my son in service to their King will spend many a year away from their homes and kin. Why do you come seeking him here, when he might winter anywhere about Rhudaur, wherever his duty has taken him."

The messenger replied, "We know not where to seek for your son, oh Thane. But the King has great need of him, and we knew naught else where to begin."

"Father, it is enough," said Eryndil, rising to his feet. His father ruled his Thanehold, but Eryndil was sworn to the King's service, and could brook no more delay in knowing his liege's will. Turning to the messenger, he added, "The one whom you seek is here, for I am he. Speak now your message."

The messenger's eyes darted back and forth between Camglas and Eryndil, but then his excitement evidently growing, he withdrew from his cloak a sealed scroll and handed it to Eryndil.

All eyes in the room were now upon Eryndil as he received the scroll, broke the seal, rolled it open, and read it in silence.

- - - - - - - -

Eryndil of Ostinand,

Your loyalty to the King and the steadfast performance of your duties, have brought your name to the King's attention.

You are hereby requested and required to set aside your current duties and assignment as a patrolling warden - and to report to King Tarnendur at Cameth Brin within a sennight of The Day of The Fall, for an appointment as a Royal Advisor. You shall join a few others - like yourself - on whom the King will depend in these difficult days.

The men of your patrol shall attend you - and may be kept as your retainers, or else reassigned to other patrols if so best suited to them. Come in state. Quarters have been reserved for you - and provision for staffing a household.

By Order of King Tarnendur

- - - - - - - -

Eryndil read it three times over. The first time, he barely took it in. The second, he reassured himself that it indeed said what he thought it said. His third reading was slow - pondering the various words and the meanings that might lie behind them. Then he spoke.

"I am ordered to Cameth Brin. I must leave in a few days. Narwaith! Nimloss!" The two "orphans" from this thanehold were perfect for this assignment - and stood as he called their names. "Go at dawn and round up our companions from their fathers' homes - bring them here by tomorrow sunset."

He turned to his parents. This would be painful to them - it was already showing. It might be painful to him someday as well, when he had a chance to recall it. "Mother - it grieves me to make from you such an early departure. Father - I am asked to make my arrival noticed - and I would make all speed. May I take horses for my men and myself? I will return them - or payment for them."

There - it was done. There was now little else to do, but be swept along, it seemed. His father nodded, and turned away. His mother fought back tears. Hendegil didn't fight them back - but surrendered to them, and buried her head in Eryndil's chest, softly repeating, "no, no, no." Then collected herself and stood stiffly, trying to regain her dignity. Eryndil looked up and saw that Callon and Caelen were right behind Hendegil - but they didn't share her look of distress. Instead, their faces were set with determination. Rather, Callon's face was. Caelen's look was a bit more pensive - or less clear to make out.

Callon spoke, "Sir, may we go with you? Please? We have family in Cameth Brin, that we would join if we could."

Eryndil pondered this. He knew that they had tried to convince Narwaith on their journey to take them to Cameth Brin instead of Ostinand - or to let them go, that they could travel to Cameth Brin themselves. Narwaith had done right to refuse them - keeping Eryndil's command. Besides, having once fallen among bandits, it were well to not let them be exposed in such a way once more.

He thought further. If he brought them, it wouldn't do to announce to all that they had been rescued from some who might have been Broggha's men (a posibility Eryndil had suspected from the start) - not right away. They could go ostensibly as his servants - or relatives, family friends - or just some Dunedain travelers who had taken up with an armed band for protection on the road.

Caelen listened to her brother's request to go to Cameth Brin with Eryndil with mixed feelings. It would be good to be with family again, but it had been so wonderful here ... she and Hendegil, after some initial shyness, were now inseparable friends. And it was good to see her brother's face gradually lose the wary, watchful expression that it had worn so continually since they had left their home. Tonight he had looked really happy for the first time in quite a while.

But she knew that tone in his voice, and knew that one way or another, they would soon be leaving this place.

It looked like fate had decreed that they were not yet to stop running.


End file.
